Ache
by LazyCreeper
Summary: In their eighth year of Hogwarts, Malfoy and Harry are forced to partner up together in their Potions class.  But do they get more than they bargained for on both ends of the spectrum?  Drarry, slow-burner, EWE.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note:** You couldn't even begin to imagine the week I had. It was so shockingly terrible. That's why I'm so late in uploading the first part of my new story. Anyway, because of some _circumstances, _there's no way I'm going to be able to do my 'one chapter per day' thing I did with my last story. But you're not going to wait months for an update, either, so...

* * *

It was ugly. So very, very ugly and he couldn't stand to look at it and he wanted it gone. _Now._

Draco Malfoy drew up his sleeve where the Dark Mark had been magically burned into his skin. Even though Voldemort had fallen, it still ached with a weak power that Malfoy wanted no part of whatsoever. Spells couldn't help. Of course not. But he tried them anyway. Now, though, it was time to move on to potions, and even though it was a longshot, there was still that tiny glimmer of hope that he could get rid of that revolting thing for good…

He'd been brewing something all week long, stealing countless ingredients from Slughorn's office, keeping it warm in the Slytherin fireplace. He was excellent at potions, and thought he might be able to conjure a removal serum. No one dared ask questions about what he was doing—they knew better. But now, at midnight on the seventh day, it was time to test it out.

He dipped a little of the liquid out and siphoned it into a phial. The liquid shimmered a greenish-black through the glass. In order for the potion to have effect, his skin would have to be exposed directly to moonlight at the exact moment of application—and, as it was such, he was creeping to the astronomy tower, traveling in the shadows.

Sometimes there were a few stragglers at the tower, checking their star charts, or whatever—but tonight, luckily, Malfoy was all alone. He smirked. He held his arm up into the moonlight, the Dark Mark erupting into a patch of goosebumps. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth and spat it onto the ground, hesitating for a brief moment before pouring the potion onto his Mark.

At first his skin felt icy cold, but the chill soon turned to fiery searing pain. Malfoy grimaced, but held his ground. Something was happening…

He thought it was going to work—he really did. Hope rose in his chest. The Dark Mark was transforming, slowly lifting out of his skin…wait, no…the top layer of his skin was getting so hot that it was actually _boiling_…

Utter shock made him feel nothing for a few moments—but then, it hit him all at once like a white-hot wave. He fell to his knees and screamed at the top of his lungs.

xxx

"Mr. Malfoy, m'boy! You're late!" Professor Slughorn said. "And you Slytherins are always so punctual…"

"I've just gotten out of the hospital wing, Professor," Malfoy spat, scowling.

"Ah! Well, that's all right, then, I suppose…go on, have a seat, Mr. Malfoy, we've not done anything in class yet, you haven't missed anything…" Slughorn tittered.

It was a gigantic class—_Quadruple _Potions with all four Houses crammed into a magically enlarged classroom. There were time constraints on the teachers' parts because they were now teaching an extra year, the 'eighth years,' and everyone had to make do with class overloads. The class was absolutely sprawling. Malfoy walked to the back of the class, clutching at his heavily bandaged arm, looking for Pansy, Blaise, Theo…anyone.

He finally found Blaise, almost completely toward the back of the class. Malfoy got up close to him and discovered that he was shaking with silent laughter.

"What's so funny?" Malfoy said. "Laughing at my arm? Well, Zabini, I'll have you know—"

"No, mate," Zabini said, flashing his brilliant white teeth. "I'm laughing because there's no empty seats left except for that one there." He jammed his thumb toward the very back row of the classroom.

Malfoy's eyes followed his gesture. The only free seat was at a desk of four, three of whom were Ron, Hermione, and, the person he'd be sitting directly beside…Harry Potter.

"You have to sit next to the Gryffindorks!" Pansy squealed.

Malfoy looked indignant. "No," he said. "I won't sit there. I'll have a word with the professor." He turned on his heels and marched back up to the front.

Slughorn was preparing ingredients at the front table. "Professor—"

"Oh! Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy put on his 'polite' voice. "Sir, I was wondering if I could please sit at the front of the—"

Slughorn glanced around. "Well, aren't there any seats left at the back? I conjured them all myself this morning, there should be one back there for you, I assure—"

"Yes, sir, there _is, _but—"

"I see, well, go ahead and have a seat today at whichever one is, er, left…not much we can do about the situation now, eh? Go along, now, this is a large class and we've lots to accomplish today…" He chuckled, smiling warmly. Malfoy didn't return the gesture.

"_Pansy_," Malfoy growled. "Switch me seats."

"_No_," she growled back, smiling wickedly.

Malfoy was livid. How could this be happening? He strode to the back of the class, nose in the air, and sat down next to Harry—but scooted his chair as far away from the other boy as possible. He shot daggers with his eyes at his friends' backs.

"Lucky you, Harry, you get to sit next to Malfoy," Ron whispered, grinning.

Harry had opened his mouth to reply when Hermione shushed them. "Slughorn's talking!" she hissed. It was hard to hear him to begin with, but at the very back of the class, it was nearly impossible. Hermione craned her neck to listen, while Harry and Ron indifferently played hangman on a scrap of parchment.

"As I'm sure you've noticed, class, there are…well, there are a lot of you in here, now that we've got to squeeze in another year of students…and I thought I'd try something a little different with our Potions class for you eighth years.

You see, such an overload of students makes the ingredients in this Potions class go by very quickly, I'm sure you would assume…so, in order to conserve as much as we can, seeing as most of it is quite valuable, I'm having the eighth years work in pairs of two for the remainder of the year."

Harry and Ron looked at each other excitedly. Neville turned his head and looked hopefully at Hermione. Hermione reluctantly nodded.

"But," Slughorn went on. "Since this class is so large, and it would be utter chaos to have you running about trying to find someone to work with, I'm going to make it simple for all of you: whoever you happen to be sitting next to is your partner. And it's as simple as that."

Mixed whispers circulated the classroom, some excited, some agitated. Some seemed to like the arrangement, while others blatantly did not. Ron looked over at Hermione.

"If I'm partnered up with _you_, that means Harry's working with—"

Malfoy's face turned paler than usual.

"_What?_" Malfoy spat, gripping his long, bony hands on the edge of the table. "There's no _way _I'm working with Potter."

"There's no way I'm working with _you_, either," Harry shot back.

"_Professor!_" they yelled in unison.

"Er—yes, boys?"

"I _refuse _to work with this—this—" Malfoy stammered, clearly flustered, cheeks showing a pink tinge.

"Professor, you can't _possibly _expect me to partner up with—" Harry started.

"Look, boys, I _knew _this idea would be an inconvenience to some people," Slughorn said. "But there is simply no other way to do it. I'm sorry, but you'll just have to work together in my class." And with that, he turned his back to scrawl something onto the blackboard.

"You had better start learning your asphodel from your fluxweed, Potter," Malfoy hissed while Slughorn droned on. "I'm not getting a bad mark in Potions class because of _you_."

"Then you had better be prepared to do all the _work_," Harry retorted.

"Shh!" Hermione said.

"Now, as you can tell from what I've written here, your first assignment with your new Potions partner is to successfully brew a combination potion. I'm aware we've not attempted one of these before, but that's all the better, because you and your partner can discover how to manage it yourselves…"

Harry and Malfoy glared at each other.

"Your assignment is to brew both a love potion and a hate potion, and successfully fuse the two together. I think you'll find that something quite interesting happens when you do so…but to find out what something is, you and your partner will have to work diligently to brew everything correctly. I say, this will be quite interesting to watch everything play out…

Anyhow, enough of my rambling! You have two weeks to get it finished, and I would certainly imagine you'll be using every second of that to prepare this complicated potion. You'll get time in class, of course, but in order to finish it, you'll have to work outside of class as well. I wish you all good luck! I believe that's enough for today, class dismissed!"

The students began to rise, the scraping of chairs and meaningless chatter filling the room. Malfoy and Harry faced each other. "You _will_ be helping me with this, Potter," Malfoy said.

"Do you even know what he's talking about?" Harry asked. He was being genuine, not picking at the other boy. This slightly took Malfoy aback.

"Well—I have a good idea, yes," Malfoy said.

"Good, because I don't," Harry smiled, knocking past Malfoy to catch up with Ron and Hermione. Malfoy scowled. This was going to be hell.

* * *

**End Notes: **This chapter was strictly an introduction, more or less. I'll be the first to admit it was a little dry, but all intros are. But...they're a necessary evil. Next chapter is where the real stuff will start. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **I had some free time last night, for a change, and was able to write the second part. However, I don't imagine part 3 will be up for another couple days-I'm really cutting it close on time as it is, to sweep into my college's library right before my psychology class starts, to upload part 2. Speaking of college, I've always hated biology, particularly the labs, and my college has broken them up into two separate classes. I thought this would be horrendous, until I walked in and saw my biology lab professor. He looks _exactly like_ Charlie Weasley. I mean. You wouldn't believe. I've been looking for someone to tell this to who might actually appreciate its awesome-osity. I think you all might. :P**  
**

* * *

Harry lay in his bed, watching tiny dots move about on his Marauder's Map. The dot labeled 'Draco Malfoy' was bobbing through the rectangles that represented shelves in the room marked 'Library.'

"Malfoy's at the library," Harry told Ron, who was lying on the adjacent bed. "He's probably doing research on our project. D'you reckon I should go down there with him?"

"If that prat wants to do research at ten at night, leave him to it," Ron said. "Not even Hermione goes into the library that late."

Harry thought about that. "Yeah…suppose you're right," he said. He mumbled _'Mischief managed'_ and put his wand, map, and glasses on his bedside table.

He snuggled down into bed, feeling perfectly relaxed…until thoughts crept into his head. Malfoy was down in the library, undoubtedly gathering information for their project…he was getting a head start, wasn't he? Maybe he even planned to finish it without Harry's knowledge, and turn it in on his own and receive all the credit for it? That definitely seemed like a very Malfoy-ish thing to do.

Harry leapt out of bed and quickly pulled his pajamas off, tugging on his rumpled uniform from earlier. "_Fucking Malfoy…_" he muttered under his breath as he headed down to find the blonde.

Eighth-years had seniority on Hogwarts grounds—no curfew. Madam Pince didn't so much as look up from her reading as Harry walked into the library.

It didn't take long to find Malfoy—his white-blonde head was hard to miss. He was hunched over an ancient-looking book, his nose hovering about three inches above the page, his rump more out of the chair than in. Harry had never seen Malfoy look that way. He almost looked—

"What is it, Potter?" Malfoy mumbled distractedly, not even bothering to look up. He dipped his quill in ink and jotted a few notes on a slip of parchment.

"Er—" Harry said. Now that he'd made it down there, he wasn't entirely sure _what_ his intentions were.

"If you're wanting to help, I don't need any," Malfoy said. "Go work on something else."

"How will I know I'm not working on the same thing as you?" Harry said.

Malfoy looked up, glaring at Harry. He scowled. "Fine. Sit."

Harry sat.

"Brewing both a love potion and a hate potion will be the easy part," Malfoy said. "The hard part will be how to effectively mix the two. It'll also be difficult to tell when to start the brewing, so that both potions finish cooking at virtually the same time."

Harry stared at him dumbly.

Malfoy's brow furrowed and he pressed on. "And I _knew_ you wouldn't be much help, so I'm already working on all of that."

"Oh," Harry said as Malfoy resumed his work. "So…what should…er…what should I work on?"

"Let me think about that awhile, Potter," Malfoy said. "I'm not sure what I want to entrust you with just yet."

"I don't care if you do _all_ the work," Harry said, "just as long as I'm getting credit for this assignment."

"Oh, you'll do your fair share," Malfoy said, making more notes on his parchment. "Don't you worry about that."

Harry sat there for a while more, watching Malfoy's elegant hand spiderweb across the paper.

"You're really good at Potions, aren't you, Malfoy?"

Malfoy looked up. Was he blushing? "…Yes. It's my best subject. The only thing I'm _not_ good at is that bloody Care of Magical Creatures class…"

"I'm not really that good at anything…well, except for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Obviously," Malfoy said tartly.

Harry stood up. "Well, if you don't need me—"

"Wait," Malfoy said. Harry paused, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"We should meet here. Tomorrow."

Tomorrow was Saturday, also known as the day Harry slept until two in the afternoon. He sighed. "What time?"

"After breakfast," Malfoy said simply. "I'll be here. And you had better be." And as if to signal the end of the conversation, Malfoy tipped his head back down, hair splashing in his eyes, and went back to reading.

xxx

About half the usual amount of students showed up to the Great Hall for breakfast. Ron was not one of them. Harry sat down next to Hermione and across from Seamus.

"You don't usually get up in time for breakfast," Hermione said. "What's the occasion?"

Harry grabbed some toast from the bread basket and ladled scrambled eggs onto his plate. "I've got to meet Malfoy in the library to work on that _Potions project_," Harry said.

"Ron just expects _me_ to do all the work," Hermione said.

"Do you _want_ Ron helping?" Harry said, smiling.

"…No, I suppose I don't," Hermione mumbled.

"I know Malfoy's a prat and all," Seamus said. "But you're actually pretty lucky, Harry. He's ace at Potions. He won't settle for anything less than an O."

"Plus," Hermione said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. "This gives you a _great_ opportunity to reconcile your petty differences."

"I know he's great at Potions…and why should I try to reconcile with _him_? Shouldn't it be the other way around, if at all?"

"Well, Harry, the way I see it is that if he's gone through the trouble of actually scheduling a time to meet with you, he's already gone beyond your expectations. Am I right?"

"…I suppose," Harry said.

"See? Already he's trying to be civil with you. That's way more than you could've expected last year."

_Last year_. Memories of Malfoy's wide, tear-filled eyes as a voice barked, _"Do you recognize these people?"_ swept to the forefront of Harry's mind. And just as easily as he could've gotten them killed, he had said…_no._

"Yeah," Harry said. "Maybe…maybe this won't be _too_ terrible."

Harry's eyes wandered over to the Slytherin table. Malfoy wasn't there. He assumed he was already at the library, waiting.

"Well," Harry said, standing up. "I'd better be getting over to the library before Malfoy throws a fit."

"But Harry, you've barely touched your breakfast," Hermione said.

Harry grabbed a Danish off of the pastry plate. "I'll eat while I walk," he said, completely confused as to why he was so eager to get to the library.

He nodded curtly to Madam Pince as he walked in, who warily returned the gesture. He looked around for Malfoy and spotted him at the same table he was sitting at yesterday. It was Saturday, which meant no school uniforms required; Malfoy was clad in a crisp, white button-up shirt, sea green tie, sea green v-neck sweater, black slacks, black loafers. Even when he wasn't trying, he looked so elegant. Harry felt rather shabby in his maroon sweater, jeans, and trainers.

Again, Malfoy had his nose in a book, writing notes. Harry sat down across from him.

"…Hey, Malfoy," he said in his library voice.

Malfoy sat his quill down and slid a book in front of Harry. "Somewhere in here it should have the ingredients for the love potion. Write it down, then cross-reference it with this one." He slid another book over to Harry. "And when you've got that done let me look it over. And don't just copy the ingredients, copy the instructions, also."

"But why bother to check both books? Wouldn't the one be enough?" Harry said.

Malfoy gaped at him. "No wonder you barely scraped by in Potions, Potter," Malfoy said. "Let me give you a hint—no two Potions instructions are alike. Everyone's got their own ideas of how a potion should be brewed—including me.

Now, these are the two most reliable books in the library when it comes to straightforward potion-making. They_ will _be different. And we'll be tweaking it a bit, too, once I see exactly how it's supposed to work."

"Wow…I never knew so much thought went into something like this," Harry said.

Malfoy allowed himself a small smile and returned to his work.

In the past, the only words exchanged between Harry and Malfoy were various insults of one kind or another. Now that they were exchanging common civilities, it felt like…like…

Harry couldn't exactly put it into words.

"Harry!" a voice called. It was Luna, her yellow hair bouncing around her yellow sundress as she walked. "I thought that was you I saw. It's so unusual to see you sitting here with Draco," she said hazily.

"Er…we're working on a Potions project together, Luna," Harry said. He cast a nervous glance over at Malfoy. He was doing a good job at pretending nothing was happening.

"That's really nice," she said. "I bet the two of you make a great pair…well, I've got to be going, lots of research to do for my Arithmancy class, you know…take care Harry, Draco." And with that, she tottered away, neck craned to the ceiling, following the dust motes floating through the air.

"Sorry 'bout that, Malfoy, that was…awkward," Harry said, forcing a little laugh.

"Yeah, it's not like she was locked in my basement for five months, or anything," Malfoy said bitterly, scribbling furiously onto his parchment.

Harry knew it was bound to come up. "I know," he murmured.

Malfoy put his pen to rest inside the ink bottle. His face was…angry? Sad? Upset? Harry couldn't tell. He'd never been good with things like that. But it definitely wasn't smug and superior, which is what he was so used to seeing on Malfoy's face.

"I can't believe I'm asking this, but…are you all right?" Harry said.

Malfoy was staring at someplace around Harry's shoulder, making a great effort not to look him in the eyes. He was still for a moment, then stood up.

"Er—I'll be right back—I've got to—just—I'll be back in a moment," he said. He sped across the library in hurried strides, slamming the doors behind him.

Harry sighed. What was that all about? He tried to think like Hermione.

"_Take out your Marauder's Map and see where he's headed to. Then follow him,"_ said a tiny Hermione voice in his head.

And he would do precisely that.

* * *

**End Notes:** I've been looking for a way to sneak Luna into a story of mine and I finally found a place. Luna was always one of my favorite characters, for some reason...anyway, I'm actually pretty happy with this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

Also, for this chapter, I'd like to add in a slight gore warning. Nothing major, but just in case, I thought I should say that up front.

**Author's Note: **I guess it wasn't _too_ long until I got this chapter uploaded. But I've kinda fallen behind in my Japanese class and I need to catch up with that instead of writing this. D: But I don't wanna.

**Suggested Listening for This Chapter: **"Let's Leave" - Allison Weiss. This song is so perfect for this chapter. I don't even.**  
**

* * *

The 'Draco Malfoy' dot on the Marauder's Map was headed up the second floor. He turned to the right at the top of the staircase, and before he even reached his destination, Harry knew where he was headed. It was the only place Malfoy could be certain no one would bother him—Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

Sighing, Harry put the map away and looked about the library until he found Luna.

"Luna!" he said. "You mind watching my stuff at that table there for a moment? I've got to, er…make a trip to the bathroom."

"Oh, sure," Luna said. "I'll keep a look out for the Findygrubs for you, too…they like to eat parchment, you know."

"…Right," Harry said, giving Luna a little nod before he left to find Malfoy.

A giant sign reading OUT OF ORDER PLEASE USE THIRD FLOOR LAVATORY hung on the door. Harry looked round to make sure no one saw him and went inside.

The stone floor was flooded with about a centimeter of water; the hem of Harry's jeans were instantly soaked. Distantly he could hear the sound of water hissing out of a broken pipe. All the mirrors were broken. A couple bewitched candles hung near the useless sinks, casting an eerie, flickering white glow.

"_Harry!_" Myrtle called, her ghostly body floating right through a stall door. "I knew it was you. Why, I haven't seen you in ages…you promised me you'd visit. And you _didn't_."

Harry knew it was coming. "Sorry about that, Myrtle," Harry said.

"Oh…that's all right…you're here _now_…" she said, smiling. She floated right through Harry's chest. It was a cold, awkward feeling.

"Myrtle?" Harry said. "Have you seen my…_friend_ Malfoy?"

"Are you meaning that _gorgeous_ blonde-headed boy?" Myrtle said. "He's there." She pointed a ghostly finger toward the very last bathroom stall. "And whatever you did to him, he's none too happy."

"_I_ didn't do anything, Myrtle," Harry said, trudging through the water to the last stall.

"Must be a silly lover's quarrel," Myrtle giggled to herself as she snaked her way through the broken pipe.

Harry knocked gingerly on the stall door. "Malfoy?"

"Go away, Potter," Malfoy mumbled.

"What's the matter with you?" Harry said. He sighed deeply. "Let me in there, Malfoy."

Malfoy was quiet. Harry assumed he was thinking. "Why?" he said.

"So in case anyone walks in here, I don't look like a nutter talking to a bathroom door," Harry said. "Open up."

"No one's going to _walk _in here, you know that," Malfoy muttered.

"Just—just let me in, all right? We'll…er…talk about this."

Harry couldn't figure out why he was so desperate to help Malfoy out. He supposed it was his ever-present urge to help anyone in obvious distress. He really didn't know. But apparently, his speech had worked, because he heard the sound of the door lock unlatching as Malfoy allowed it to swing open.

Malfoy's face was something else. It was ashen, sunken. Harry definitely preferred the sneers and the snarky comments to…_this._

"You've discovered my secret, Potter," Malfoy said hotly as Harry shut the door behind him, giving a lifeless laugh. "Now you know that I actually have feelings. And sometimes…certain things, they just…" he ran a hand through his hair, casting his glance down to the floor.

"…Make memories come back, I know," Harry finished for him. "Like seeing Luna."

Malfoy nodded. "Yeah."

Silence.

"Well, Potter, if you're quite done staring at me, I think you can leave," Malfoy said. He tried to sound like he usually did…but the tears brimming in his eyes made the whole thing terribly unconvincing.

"_Malfoy_," Harry said. "Don't…er…don't cry." _Why_ had he put himself in this situation, again? "It's…it's all right…"

"I'm not _crying_, Potter!" Malfoy snapped. At that, a tear ran down either side of his face. His cheeks pinked. Feeling trapped, he covered his face with his hands, slouching his shoulders. But he wasn't sobbing. Just standing there, motionless. He reminded Harry of a wilting flower.

"I really do get it, Malfoy," Harry murmured. "Even if neither of us wants to admit that." Harry gave a weak little laugh. "I mean…sometimes I forget that I'm not the only one that's been affected by…all this."

Malfoy sniffled, the sound muffled by his hands, still not moving.

Harry frowned. It was all so _odd_, seeing Malfoy so…what was the word he was looking for? Emotional? Vulnerable? _Average_? He got the impression that this was a rare moment of sorts. And he shouldn't just let it slip through his fingers like so much salt.

Harry didn't say another word. He didn't have to. He hooked one of his arms around Malfoy's neck, his chin resting in the hollow of the blonde's shoulder. Malfoy stiffened but didn't resist. He pulled his hands away from his face, leaving his arms to dangle at his side. And he sniffled some more. And his shoulders quaked ever so slightly. And he cried. And cried, and cried, and cried silent tears that left a damp spot on Harry's tatty sweater. All the while, he couldn't believe what he was doing, wouldn't ever expect himself to do something like this, sick with himself for being so weak…but in spite of all that, he felt…

Safe.

The subtle scent of Malfoy's expensive cologne filled Harry's nostrils. He still couldn't figure out what, exactly, possessed him to throw a comforting arm around his (former?) enemy…but…something about Malfoy crumpling in front of his eyes made him want to reach out and touch him. So touch him he did. And somehow, it felt like the right thing to do.

He could feel warmth radiating off of Malfoy's arm—the one that looked thicker and puffier than the other. Harry knew too well what bandages under clothing looked like and didn't care to ask about it. But that heat…

"Why does your Dark Mark feel so hot?" Harry said, just above a whisper, not bothering to move his head. He said it to the wall.

"I tried to burn it off. But I made it worse," Malfoy whispered back.

"Let me see," Harry whispered.

Malfoy slowly lifted his head away from Harry's shoulder but didn't bother to put any extra space between the two of them. He pulled off his sweater and hung it over his shoulder. He unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and pulled it up, exposing his bulky wound dressings. There were but three pieces of tape holding the bandages together, and he undid them gingerly so he could do them back up later. He popped it open, exposing his wound for Harry to see. What Harry saw horrified him.

It didn't even look like human skin. It looked like hamburger meat—except damp with clear infection and blood. His entire epidermis had been burned away, and in places, the second layer had, as well, revealing the third, fatty under layer. The heat coming off of it was shocking. Even though there was no skin there, Harry could still clearly make out the Dark Mark seared into the gore. Harry wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy's very bones were imprinted with the Mark.

"_Fuck_, Malfoy," Harry whispered, awestruck. "That's—"

"—disgusting," Malfoy finished for him, carefully redoing his wrappings and refastening his shirtsleeve. "But—I wanted it gone so badly I was…willing to try anything. My whole life is _ruined_ from that scar."

"I know how you feel," Harry whispered.

Malfoy's eyes fluttered up to Harry's zigzag scar.

"I guess you would."

And a strange realization began to sink through to the both of them.

xxx

"Now, before you all set in to work on your potions, we need to review a few things about potion safety," Slughorn said, scrawling the words 'Basic Precautions' onto the blackboard.

Malfoy wrote something on a piece of parchment and slid it over to Harry. Harry glanced over and made sure neither Ron nor Hermione had seen—he'd never hear the end of it if they did. Once he was certain he was safe, he looked at the note. In amazing handwriting, Malfoy had written:

'Did you tell anyone about yesterday?'

Harry scribbled back:

'No did you?'

And slid it back over to Malfoy. He pretended to temporarily ignore it, taking the time to write actual notes off of the board, and looked down at it. He wrote:

'Good. What are you doing after this class?'

It went back and forth, back and forth, like that for the remainder of the class period. Harry kept worrying that Ron or Hermione, or even Neville, would see, but no one noticed. Harry happened to look over and saw Blaise giving him a nasty look, but he couldn't care less about Malfoy's friends—if you could call them that—spotting him passing notes to the blonde. He couldn't believe he was having causal small-talk—sort of—with Malfoy.

Near the end of class they agreed on paper that they'd meet up that night in the library again at seven. It was a Monday—they didn't meet on Sunday because Malfoy had exposed his wound in a bathroom of all places (although partly Harry's fault for him doing so) and infection set in. He spent the entire day in the hospital wing. Harry didn't visit him. He was too afraid Ron or Hermione would catch him, and as of yet, he still couldn't come up with a good explanation as to why he might be seen with Malfoy aside from school-related things. So they were sticking to school-related things, for the time being.

'Hows your arm?' Harry wrote.

'Better,' Malfoy wrote.

'Does it hurt?' Harry wrote.

'Does your forehead hurt?' Malfoy wrote.

'Not anymore,' Harry wrote.

'My arm hurts.'

'How bad?'

'Very bad.'

'You don't act like it hurts.'

'I'm pretty good at pretending.'

'Me too.'

Malfoy looked over at Harry and gave him a tiny smirk—or was it a smile? It had been too fleeting to tell.

'You should be taking notes.'

'How can I take notes when you keep writing to me?'

'No wonder you're so bad at Potions.'

Harry glanced at Malfoy's notes. Then he glanced at Hermione's. Malfoy had written more than her.

Maybe Malfoy was smarter than Harry thought.

'Are you good at Charms?'

'Yes, why?'

'Help me with my Charms homework too when we go to the library tonight.'

'Ok. We'll have to sit in a back room so we don't make noise.'

'Ok. I'll

But Slughorn had dismissed class and he didn't get to finish what he was going to write.

"Keep it," Malfoy said to him. "See you at seven."

Malfoy walked swiftly out of the classroom, completely unaware that Harry was following his every step with his eyes.

* * *

**End Notes: **I wanted this to move slightly faster and have a bit more in it than my last story. Ha. Also, there's this building at my university, and the girls' bathroom as a sign by it that says STUDENTS, PLEASE USE BATHROOM ACROSS LOBBY. It's painted and nailed to the wall, not just scribbled on a sheet of paper and taped to the door. I wonder if there's a ghost in THERE? Haha.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings**: First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note**: I've been working on-and-off on this for a pretty long time. Finally, this chapter's done. Do you know what MST is? My friend just got into Harry Potter and we've been MST'ing the movies right after he borrows one of my Harry Potter books at a time and finishes them. You find an absurd amount of Drarry moments if you look really hard, we found. We have no life. Ha.

**Suggested Listening for This Chapter**: Oh No! - Marina and the Diamonds. Have I already used a Marina and the Diamonds song? I don't remember. Wow, they should just rename this song 'Harry and Malfoy.' Again. I have no life.

* * *

Malfoy stared across the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table, watching Harry talk animatedly to Granger and Weasley, an introverted smile playing across his face. He wondered what Harry was talking about. He wondered—

"Malfoy, what the bloody hell are you making that face for?" Blaise said, snapping Malfoy out of his trance. The blonde went back to picking at his own breakfast instead of ogling over at Harry's.

"So, what, exactly, have you and Potter got going on?" Blaise asked, smirking. "Sure have been spending a lot of _time_ with that git here lately."

"I don't believe that's any of your business," Malfoy snapped, sopping up egg yolk with toast. If only his mother could see the deplorable things he ate when he was away from home. He reached across Blaise's plate to grab another muffin.

"I know you have to work with him for the Potions project," Blaise said, "but that doesn't mean you have to pass him notes in class like a third year girl."

Pansy looked genuinely alarmed. Apparently she hadn't ever caught sight of that. "_What?_" she cried, her butter knife clattering against the table.

"Oh, shut it, Pansy," Malfoy said, not even sparing her a sideways glance.

"Yeah, I'll have to agree, this isn't like you, Malfoy," Theo offered. Blaise and Pansy shot him haughty glances, like he had tromped on their territory. Theo's face flustered and he focused his attention back to his cereal.

"What's so bad about working on our Potions project together?" Malfoy said, more to Blaise than anyone else. "It's not like I have a choice."

"No, but you _do _have a choice as to whether you tutor Potter in Charms, as well," Blaise quipped. "I saw you two in the library—practicing our Ink Removal lesson."

"I don't owe anyone an explanation for what I choose to do with my spare time, Blaise," Malfoy murmured coldly, giving the other boy such a dirty look that Blaise couldn't keep eye contact for more than half a second.

Silence for awhile, then Blaise uttered something that ignited the ticking time bomb.

"I think you _fancy _him," Blaise said, flashing his pearly white teeth.

The hair on the back of Malfoy's neck bristled. His porcelain cheeks tinged—not quite a blush, just a pink stain—and he turned slowly in his seat to look at Blaise.

"If you want to have a go-round at _that_ game, we most certainly will," Malfoy said evenly. "I think everyone here would like to know what I heard behind your bedcurtains two weeks ago…don't you think so, Blaise?"

Trademark Draco Malfoy smirk. He never broke eye contact. Blaise backed down, muttering a series of 'sorry's and 'I didn't mean it's in the process.

"That's what I thought," Malfoy said, sipping at his pumpkin juice.

xxx

"I was thinking about something, Malfoy," Harry said, putting a placemarker in the book he was riffling through. "Where are we going to actually _brew _all this?"

"Dunno," Malfoy said. "Suppose we could find an empty classroom and do it in there."

"Yeah," Harry said, letting the idea percolate. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

"Hey," Harry said. Malfoy raised an inquisitive, plucked eyebrow. "D'you think we could still get into the Room of Requirement?"

Malfoy went paler than usual.

"I don't mean going back into the Room of Hidden Things," Harry explained in a rush, and Malfoy's distaste visibly lessened. "I mean…we might be able to get a nice little room for our potion-making, is all."

"…I'm not so sure about that, Potter." He fidgeted.

"What could it hurt to try? And if it doesn't work, we'll go find a classroom or cupboard or something."

Malfoy screwed up his face, still skeptical. "I…all right," he said with a sigh.

So they gathered up their books and parchment and quills and ink and tromped out of the library. The pair were feeling more at ease around each other with every day that passed. Harry felt apprehensive about this quick transition, under constant worry that Ron or Hermione would catch something amiss and call him out on it. Malfoy wasn't sure how he felt about it all. They chose to curtly ignore the situation at hand and never mention it. Which was probably a good thing for the both of them.

Up to the seventh floor they went, receiving confused glances from passerby who were aware of their turbulent history. Harry stared straight ahead while Malfoy stabbed daggers with his eyes and scowled at their flustered audience. Walking seven flights of stairs never quite seemed to take so long.

They stood in front of the door to the Room of Requirement in thoughtful silence for a moment. "Who's going to do the walking past three times?" Harry finally said.

"You do it," Malfoy blurted a half-second after Harry's remark, folding his arms defensively across his chest.

Harry walked in front of the door one, two, three times, brow furrowed in concentration. He turned the knob, half-expecting it to be locked, but was surprised when the door swung right open.

"Let's have a look inside…" Harry muttered, walking in.

Malfoy followed on his heels. "The floor's charred," Malfoy said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah…" Harry said. "But the rest looks fine."

The room was lit by a crackling fire. It was delightfully warm. Two charmed candles cased inside round, glass globes floated above a desk located in the center of the room, which was just big enough for two people to comfortably scribble their studies upon. A giant cabinet on the right wall, presumably filled with Potions ingredients, sat beside a long counter, complete with four Porta-Burners and a large basin. The left wall was lined with a generously-stocked bookshelf and a plush, crimson sofa. And the stone flooring below was singed a sooty black in a number of places, presumably from last year's Fiendfyre, which was the only imperfect thing amongst the rest.

"This place makes me feel weird," Malfoy said bluntly.

"Me too," Harry said. "But…it's _perfect_."

"I know," Malfoy mumbled. "Well…let's get to work."

Malfoy threw his bag down on the table and went to the cabinet. He scanned the contents with his eyes and frowned. "Only basic ingredients are in here," he said. "We'll have to get the rest when we go back to class tomorrow."

"Really?" Harry said, dismayed. "Guess I didn't ask for the right thing, then."

"The rest of all this is fine, though," Malfoy said, looking about the room. Hopefully they'd skirt past another awkward moment. He probed his brain for something to say. "Well, Potions are a miss tonight. Get out your Transfiguration, Potter."

Half an hour later, and Harry still couldn't turn an ink bottle into a kitten. Malfoy demonstrated how to do it with an effortless wave of his wand, changing the bottle into a black, fluffy, miaowing feline and back again over and over and over. The best Harry could ever get was an ink bottle with a wagging, bottlebrush tail, which Malfoy promptly reverted back to its original state in horror.

"I don't see how this can be so complicated for you, Potter," Malfoy said. "You do loads more complicated spells in Defense class with no problem at all."

"I don't know, either," Harry said. "And you make it look so _easy_."

"That's because it is," Malfoy said tartly. He stood up and strode around to Harry's side of the table. "Come on, up you get," he said, prodding Harry with a demanding forefinger.

"What for?" Harry said, bewildered, but he got up anyway. Malfoy grabbed the back of the chair and pushed it out of the way.

"I can see where you're going wrong, but apparently I don't know how to make you understand what I'm trying to say," Malfoy said, coming to stand directly behind Harry. "So you need to _feel_ where you're going wrong. Wand at the ready, Potter."

"Wh—?" Harry began, but cut his speech off as he felt a hand encircling the wrist that held his wand and another steadying hand pressed to his side.

"This is the only way I can think of doing this," Malfoy muttered, bloodless lips an inch away from Harry's ear. Harry's eyes widened.

"I'm going to move your arm the way it's supposed to move," Malfoy said. "Try to feel what you're doing wrong. All right?"

Harry nodded weakly.

"_Felinius vertolius,_" Malfoy murmured, propelling Harry's wand arm into a series of arcs and curlicues. The bottle vibrated and shook, looking like it might crack in half, but with a tiny _pop_ and a puff of gray smoke, the bottle changed. A small, black kitten sat in its place, covered in spots the color of the ink bottle's stopper.

"There, see?" Malfoy hummed in Harry's ear. "Nothing to it."

The two of them went back to work with their Transfiguration practice, each of them gracefully ignoring the fact that each other's cheeks were glowing a very obvious red.

* * *

**End Notes**: I use the phrase 'barely above a whisper' too much, and I make characters blush too much. Oh, well.  
My friend (the one I mentioned up there in the author's notes) and I were sitting up late last night and we were talking about what it'd be like if Harry and Malfoy used magic to have a kid. He thought Malfoy would have the kid. I agreed. He thought the kid would have blonde hair with black lowlights. I agreed. I said he'd have glasses. He agreed. And then we both agreed that the kid would call Malfoy 'BlondeDaddy' and Harry 'ScarDaddy.' _Ha!_ And sprinkle in our sadistic humor and you've got an hour and a half of incessant laughter. We're dumb. But for some reason I think this would make a good fanfiction-like a funny one, not like a serious one. MAYBE SOMEDAY.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **I actually got to type this chapter without too much of a delay this time. Hurrah...?

**Suggested Listening for This Chapter: **Speechless-Lady Gaga. ...Don't make fun of me for listening to Gaga! :P**  
**

* * *

The black kitten with light-brown spots from the previous night's Transfiguration lesson was popping its claws on Malfoy's bedspread. Malfoy leaned down and scratched behind its ears.

He was just killing time until it was time to meet up with Harry again. He did that a lot more than he'd like to admit nowdays—killing time until he could meet up with Harry. But he tried not to think about it too much. He preferred being blissfully ignorant than to stir up any complex…thoughts? Was that the word he was looking for?

People were starting to notice. He'd heard Granger and Weasley hound Harry on his choice of what he did with his spare time one day in Charms. He'd never really liked either of them, so their cold stares were met with an equally icy glare of his own, but that saddened look on Harry's face bothered him. Yes…it did. He petted the cat Harry'd conjured distractedly as he turned the thought—and the lingering image of Harry's distraught face—over in his mind.

Kids liked to talk. Spread rumors. He hoped those rumors didn't make their way back to his father. Sometimes things of that nature had their way of doing that…and his father would blow things way out of proportion.

_Just a Potions project, really, Father. I didn't have a choice in the matter. Professor Slughorn made me work with him, I didn't choose him._

_Is that so, Draco? But I've been hearing you've been seeing Potter after hours, assisting him with other subjects, as well…is that true?_

_Well, Father, you see, since I've got to be around him anyway, I thought I'd…I thought I might…_

_Yes, Draco? You thought you'd…what?_

_I…I don't know, Father._

Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at his temples. He'd dug himself deep, hadn't he? Well. It'd be all right, so long as he didn't think about it. And if he kept his hands off of Potter from now on. Yes. There would be no more physical contact, even if it were necessary. Like last night. Last night was very necessary. It _was._

"Oh, God," Malfoy muttered. "What've I gotten myself into, Whiskers?" he said as the kitten curled itself into Malfoy's lap.

Nothing left to do now but to move with the motions.

"Dice these," Malfoy said, plunking a jar of newt eyes in front of Harry, who was seated at the table watching the blonde pace about the room, gathering and doing and organizing this-and-that-and-the-other.

"How many?"

"Fifteen. No—better make that sixteen."

"Right."

Malfoy was in his element. Finally, something that came second nature to him to occupy his time with—something he didn't have to stop and ponder about before he knew what was right. It felt refreshing. And he had no problem bossing Harry around.

With a careless flick of his wand he lit a fire under one of the Porta-Burners and magicked a cauldron from the cupboard to sit over the flame. He had the ingredients list on a piece of parchment in front of him, written in Harry's hand. Malfoy couldn't help but notice the funny way he wrote his capital M's. He was lost in thought for a fraction of a moment before he forced himself to snap back into reality and get back to work.

He added everything he should, adding a few extra ingredients here and there. Half an hour later of Harry's endless slicing and dicing and Malfoy's endless mixing and stirring, the potion turned a bright shade of pink—a definite love potion in the making. He allowed himself a smug smirk at his nice work.

He leaned his head over and gave the fumes a sniff. Love potions always smelled like the substance most appealing to the particular user. Upon giving it a smell, Malfoy jerked his head back, wide-eyed, alarmed, flustered. Oh. No.

"How's it looking?" Harry questioned.

Malfoy whipped around to face him—perhaps too fast. "Fine," he said in a voice that didn't quite sound like his own. "Erm—it needs to simmer for two days. At least. Why don't we…go ahead and start on the hate potion, then?"

"Sure," Harry said. "The sooner we get this over with, the better."

At that, Malfoy's brow furrowed. "And what's _that_ supposed to mean, Potter?" Malfoy snapped.

Harry honestly hadn't meant anything by that—but now that Malfoy had started something, he wasn't going to back down. He raised his hands defensively. "_Noth_ing, Malfoy, I was just saying," he said, increasing the volume of his voice. And Malfoy noticed it, too. He glared angrily at the other boy.

"If you don't like how _fast_ I'm going, you can bloody well do it yourself and see what sort of mark you get," Malfoy said, matching Harry's tone.

"It's _both_ of our marks, you prat," Harry said, standing up. "If I fail, _you _fail. I can _gladly _arrange that if you'd like."

They were tromping all over old territory again, giving each other dirty looks and picking petty fights. Forget trying to be civil to one another—this felt _good_.

"Yeah, fail this and get good marks in all the subjects I'm tutoring you in," Malfoy said bitterly. "_Great_ idea, Potter."

"And what the bloody hell did you even _put_ in that love potion, Malfoy?" Harry yelled. "I can smell it from here, it's like you've dumped a whole bottle of that awful cologne you wear in there."

Malfoy's heart skipped a beat. Harry smelled…his cologne…?

But he didn't want to let Harry in on his slight perk of (joy?) satisfaction, so he covered it up the only way he knew how—being Malfoy.

His face curled elegantly into a sadistic grin. "Is that so, Potter?" Malfoy said. "You smell my cologne coming off that potion, eh? Might you remember what Slughorn said today in class over what the smell of a love potion means?"

Harry opened his mouth to snap something back, but closed it again, trying to think back on today's lesson.

And apparently he'd been paying attention for once because his eyes widened and his mouth opened a fraction in awe.

"Wait—that's not—"

"Too late, Potter, you've already said it!" Malfoy jeered. "_Ha_. I _knew_ there was something off about you." Malfoy was completely making that up. He'd never gotten an inkling of such a thing.

"Oh, yeah?" Harry said. "What do _you_ smell?"

Malfoy racked his brain, trying incredibly hard to think of something else to say than what the answer truly was. What were some other things he _loved_ to smell? Why couldn't he think of anything?

"Er—"

"Ah," Harry said, and now it was his turn to have the wicked grin. "I bet you smell Zabini's arse, or something."

"_No_," Malfoy said hotly. "I—I don't have to tell you _anything_," he added quickly.

Harry laughed, and Malfoy honestly couldn't tell if it were good-natured or malicious. "Oh, no, no, no, Malfoy," he said, stepping closer to him, getting the defensive barrier of the table out from between them. "Now I want to know. And you're going to tell me."

With lightning reflexes, Harry grabbed his wand out of his pocket. Malfoy saw him going for it and reached down for his own wand, but he wasn't fast enough. He was doomed.

"_Rictumsempra!_" Harry cried. The spell hit Malfoy square in the stomach, flinging him to the ground right on his arse. A horrible, soul-wrenching tickling sensation crawled across his ribcage, causing him to curl up into a tiny ball on the stone floor. He struggled for breath, giggling uncontrollably on the exhale.

"_OhdearGodnopleasePotter—!_" he managed to get out between laughing fits. "_Pleasepleasenoplease—!"_

Harry was getting a fair bit of enjoyment watching Malfoy giggle and squirm on the floor. "I don't believe I will, Malfoy," Harry said smugly. "Not until you tell me what the love potion makes _you_ smell."

Malfoy groped desperately for his wand in his pocket, but he couldn't make his hand leave his side for more than a second; when he tried, the tickling grew exponentially worse.

"_Okay—okay—okay—" _Malfoy gasped. "_I'll tell—I'll tell you—just—please—no more—!_"

"_Finite_," Harry said, lifting the Tickling Spell from Malfoy's midsection. Malfoy stopped squirming and gingerly uncurled his body, gracelessly out of breath, his once perfectly-combed hair in a brilliant disarray.

"All right," Malfoy said finally. He held his hand out to Harry. "Help me up, you git."

Harry grabbed hold of him and heaved him up. Malfoy dusted himself off indignantly, making a feeble effort to pat down his hair and straighten at his tie. He looked Harry in the eye for a moment, halfway noticing that his silly round glasses were slightly askew. He cleared up his throat.

"A deal is a deal, I suppose," Malfoy said. "And I most certainly don't want to go through _that_ again." He wrinkled his nose. Harry gave a little laugh. Malfoy cracked a tiny smile before he could catch himself.

"Don't laugh at me when I tell you," he murmured.

"_You_ laughed at _me,_" Harry said.

"I know," Malfoy said. "But—"

"Just say it."

He sighed.

"Well—when I smell the love potion—I smell—oh, I'll never hear the end of it if I say it, I don't—"

"Just _say_ it, Malfoy, spit it _out!_"

"I smell your _hair_, all right?" Malfoy yelled, cheeks flushing, whether in anger or embarrassment or a combination of both, he didn't know. "I smell that bloody fruity stuff you use for shampoo, or whatever it is, _I_ don't know, but that—that's—there, happy now, Potter?"

Harry was quiet for a moment, just staring at the blonde.

"So—" Harry began, then stopped. "Er—"

Malfoy started fidgeting again, a habit becoming exceedingly more frequent and bothersome.

"This is…a bit awkward," Harry murmured.

"Yeah," Malfoy said quietly.

Neither of them dared look at each other; their eyes were carefully diverted to the ground. That horrible anxious sensation had returned to Malfoy's gut, churning nauseatingly. He wanted to just—

Suddenly, he felt a forefinger lifting his chin up. He was eye-to-eye with Harry, who was wearing a nervous facial expression. Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted the rare shade of green Harry's eyes were. But before he could ponder more about that, he felt a tentative pair of lips press lightly against his own.

Before he had a chance to respond—positive, negative, or otherwise—Harry had pulled away. He was looking at Malfoy now, flushed, embarrassed, perhaps even a tad hopeful. And he was waiting for Malfoy to say something.

"I—I—"

Should he pretend like he hated it, to keep up his high-and-mighty image? Or should he let Harry in on what he really thought? And did he even _know _what he really thought? Which one was the right choice? Which one?

"I—"

"Don't say any more," Harry said, frowning. "I get it."

He turned on his heels, his back to Malfoy, walking quickly over to the table to gather his things. He was throwing quills and parchment an ink and books into his bag with abandon. He had the determination of someone who needed to escape, and fast.

"Wait," Malfoy managed to say. "Er—well, what I mean to say, is—"

Harry paused, sat his bag down. He was looking at Malfoy expectantly.

"Potter—no. _Harry_," he corrected himself. "This whole thing, this…what_ever_ it is…it's all happening so fast and it's all so dreadfully confusing." He chose his words carefully, saying them in a voice scarcely louder than a mumble.

"I know," Harry said. "I know."

He crossed the room to stand in front of Malfoy, snaking his arms around the blonde's waist, pulling him close. After he got over his initial feeling of shock, Malfoy flung his own arms tightly around Harry, temporarily putting all propriety and dignity aside, burying his nose in that delightful hair. He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing. He was fairly certain Harry didn't, either, which made him feel considerably at ease.

"I'm so confused, Harry," Malfoy mumbled in the other boy's ear. Oh, if any of his friends could hear him say that. They'd have a riot. A real knee-slapper, that was—Malfoy, confused? No. Malfoy knows everything. But Harry didn't seem to notice anything amiss, which was all the better.

"I know," Harry said for the umpteenth time. "Me too."

"Shall we be…confused together, then?"

Harry chuckled in Malfoy's ear. "I think we could manage that."

* * *

**End Notes: **Moving quicker than my last one! Hurrah...?


	6. Chapter 6

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **When I was proofreading this, I had written a sentence that said, "Harry put on the Invisibility Cloak, turning invisible." I laughed. So hard. This story has a lot of meaningless, awkward dialogue in it, and also no real plot development to speak of. Mainly it's just a fun chapter I typed in between study sessions and many, many, many, many trips to La Huerta (Mexican restaurant) with my friends. And this has nothing to do with the story, but a local news station was doing a bit about the new Harry Potter movie coming out, and the anchor was like, "Well, everyone, get your Rigardo Leviosa ready, because Harry is coming for you!" And I was like...even if he _actually_ said 'Wingardium Leviosa' like I'm sure he meant, that sentence still makes no sense at all...I almost wish that movie _wasn't _in 3D. 3D movies are $10, not the regular $7. And $10 means I can't buy a coke. Oh, well.

**Suggested Listening for This Chapter: **"Under the Bridge" - Red Hot Chili Peppers. Nice, mellow song, fits really well with this chapter. Oh, or maybe "Loose Lips" - Kimya Dawson. That song screams 'awkward', which is what this chapter is-like my favorite lyrics from it, "And if you wanna kill yourself, remember that I love you. Call me up before you're dead, we'll make other plans instead." Ha. Okay. Nobody cares. Onward with the story now...

* * *

It was a cloudy, cool Saturday—the bewitched ceiling in the Great Hall had told him so. He could just imagine it—the chilled air licking his cheekbones, the lake lapping enticingly at the bank, the grass lush between his fingers. He'd love to be out in it. He'd especially love to be out there with—

"Hey," Harry said.

Malfoy spun around in his desk chair, shock coursing through him, eyes wide. Instinctively, he whipped his wand out, pointing it directly at his intruder's heart, but his arm wilted back into his lap when he realized who it was. "What on _Earth_ are you _do_ing here?" he gasped.

Harry flashed him a crooked smile. "Are you not happy to see me?"

"Yes—but—what is that you've got in your hand?" Malfoy pointed at the item in question with a manicured forefinger.

"Oh! I forgot. You don't know about my—" He put his cloak around him, everything but his head disappearing. "—Invisibility Cloak."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "Impressive trinket you've got there."

"Thanks."

"But—that doesn't explain how you found the dungeons."

"I've been down here before," Harry admitted, giving a sheepish smile.

Malfoy forced all the other questions that arose from that remark to the back of his mind. "Right…but…how did you know the password?"

"I just…" Harry shrugged. "Waited for someone to come round the corner and slipped inside when they opened the door."

"And how did you know where my room was?"

"Will you stop with all these questions?" Harry said, but grinning his dumb little grin nonetheless. "I just came down here because—well, I know it's a rotten day out, but Ron and Hermione have gone off somewhere I don't even _want_ to know and I thought we could—"

The corner of Malfoy's mouth formed the ghost of a smile. "Yes?"

"I—I dunno," Harry said. "I thought you'd think of something."

"Well—" Malfoy started, but thought of something. He flicked his wand at the door, locking it. "Blaise sleeps in that other bed there," he motioned. "He'd murder me in my sleep if he saw you in here. This bed here on the right is mine. Sit."

Harry kicked his shoes off and fell into Malfoy's bed, making himself quite at home, already packing his pillow round his head to suit his comforts. Malfoy looked at him with distaste, thinking he'd have to re-fluff it before he ever used it again.

"I said _sit_, not _sleep_," Malfoy said.

"I'm not going to sleep…you should come sit next to me," he said, patting at the opposite side of the mattress.

"Erm—"

"What?"

"Nothing, just—won't that look—"

"No one's going to be looking, you locked the door, remember?"

Malfoy looked hesitant, but got up nonetheless and laid down parallel to Harry, being sure to keep a respectable distance. He didn't know exactly why, but something felt off about leaving less than a foot of space between them.

Malfoy immediately started talking, eager to make conversation, to avoid some of the awkwardness that could creep along oh-so-easily in their current situation. "So where'd you get that cloak?"

"It was my dad's."

"Oh."

_Damn it all,_ Malfoy thought. _I've gone and dragged his dead father into the conversation. That's not uncomfortable at _all, _oh no._

"Yep, it's proven pretty handy over the years…"

"I would imagine."

_Damn it all to hell_.

"Hey," Harry said. "We could go outside for a bit. I don't give a toss if someone I know sees me hanging around with you. Maybe we could kick up a Quidditch game, or something."

"I can't go outside."

Harry's eyebrows knitted together. "Why not?"

Malfoy raised his arm. It was still abnormally thick, which suggested he still had to dress his wound, but not so heavily this time. "This," he said.

"Oh, guess it might get infected outside or something, eh?"

"Yeah—you didn't notice I haven't been going to Care of Magical Creatures lately?"

Harry smiled his embarrassed smile again. "Sorry. Awfully busy class."

Harry reached to grab at his arm, but Malfoy warily drew back.

"What are you going to do, before I let you have a go at my arm?"

"I just wanted to see how it's looking. Can't I see it?"

"It's a lot better. Not nearly as disgusting as it was before."

"Well, let me look at it…" And before Malfoy could say anything else to the contrary, Harry had grabbed hold of his left hand, gently pushing up the sleeve of his cardigan to expose crisp white bandages.

Harry loosened the bindings with his right hand, keeping a latch on Malfoy's hand with his left. "Your hands are soft, Malfoy," he muttered absently, carefully undoing a meticulous knot in the bandaging.

"Can't say the same for yours…" Malfoy said, but gave a little titter to let Harry know he had no ill intent, this time. Harry's hands were rough, calloused. Delightfully so. Just as Malfoy always pictured a savior's hand to feel when wrapped around his own.

"Ah!" Harry said, finally getting all of the bandages unwrapped. "It's not that bad."

Now Malfoy's wound was mainly a Dark Mark-shaped scab. Still festering, but a drastic improvement from last week's massacre-looking thing.

"Feels better?"

"Mhm."

Harry wrapped him back up, giving him all these weird little glances as he did so. Malfoy wanted to snap at him and ask what all the bloody looks were about—his first instinct that arose when he didn't understand something was always to snap at it. But he didn't. Temper, temper. Harry pulled Malfoy's cardigan sleeve back down, trying to bring it back to its former starched, pressed splendor, but ended up giving up on it, leaving it wrinkled and rumpled.

He slammed his head back down into the pillow. Malfoy followed suit. Staring up at the ceiling, Harry reached over and grabbed Malfoy's hand—such a casual gesture that you'd think they did it every day. And Malfoy couldn't think of anything else to do in that situation but to grab his back and stare up at the ceiling as well.

"Tell me something about yourself, Malfoy."

"Like what?"

"Like…tell me what your favorite color is." Every now and again one of Harry's fingers would twitch in Malfoy's grasp. It made the blonde nervous. Like perhaps what was happening at that moment wasn't really happening, and it was all just some sort of trick of the mind, and Harry Potter really _wasn't _lying in his bed (still at a respectable distance, though, don't forget that) holding his hand. How did all of this even make sense? And did he really care if it made sense, anyway? No, he didn't much mind which way was up or down or in or out anymore, he found.

_Stop philosophizing and answer his question, you dumb git._

"Green…and blue. You?"

Were they having a conversation with each other or with the ceiling?

"Red."

Malfoy's turn. "Favorite thing to do in your spare time?"

"Dunno. Quidditch. Flying in general, really. Hanging out with friends. Just whatever."

"You want to go pro when you get out of here?"

"I wanted to be an Auror really badly last year," Harry said. "But I think I've had enough fighting for one lifetime. I think maybe Quidditch is the way to go."

"You'd be good at that."

"What about you, what will you do when you graduate?"

"You'd laugh if I told you."

"No I won't, just say it."

"I want to be a Healer," Malfoy mumbled.

"At St. Mungo's?"

"Yeah."

"No more fighting for you, either, eh?"

"Absolutely not."

"A healer…you'd be good at that."

Silence. Malfoy felt his palm getting sweaty. He hoped Harry didn't notice, but he knew he probably did.

"Hey, you never told me what _you_ liked to do in your spare time, Malfoy."

"I don't have a whole lot of spare time."

"But when you _do_, I mean."

"I like reading…"

"You sound like Hermione."

Malfoy grimaced.

"But I guess…" Malfoy said. "I guess my favorite thing to do is drawing."

"You draw?" Harry said. He sounded genuinely amazed.

"Yeah."

"Can I see some of your drawings?"

"Well, they're not very good…"

"Oh, I'm sure they're great…"

"Maybe later, Potter."

And they did more aimless chat like that for an hour or so. Neither were surprised when it turned out they didn't know a whole lot about each other. There was plenty to ask about—but they mainly covered favorites. For some reason favorites divulge a lot about someone's character, or so they figured, anyway.

"Well," Harry said, sitting up and letting go of Malfoy's hand—or rather, peeled his hand away, since it had been in contact with sweaty skin for so long. "I'd better get going before Zabini shows up and rips my head off."

"But you could just stay and hide under your cloak when he comes in…" Oh, God. Did he, Malfoy, just say that? Was he begging for Harry to stay with him? Ridiculous. Just ridiculous. He hated himself for that, he really did.

"I guess I could, but that could get messy," Harry said, laughing. He threw the Invisibility Cloak around him, immediately vanishing.

Malfoy kept his eyes on the door, waiting to see it swing open as if by magic. He was surprised when he felt a pair of damp lips press against his cheekbone and linger there for a moment.

"See you later," an invisible Harry mumbled close to his ear. Malfoy was too stunned, really, to watch Harry leave, but he heard the door click closed in the other boy's wake.

"Oi, where you been all day?" Ron said to Harry as he walked into the room they shared.

"Oh, just…out and about," he said, trying not to sound suspicious. "Where did you and Hermione go?"

"Where d'you _think_ me and Hermione went?"

"Dunno…the library?"

"_All day, _Harry. _All day_. She made me stay through lunch to look through a bunch of moldy old books."

Harry laughed. "Sounds like fun."

"Oh, by the way," Ron said. "there was a rolled-up piece of parchment slid under the door when I walked in and it had your name on it. Really loopy handwriting, I think it's from another girl stalking you. I put it on your bed there in case you actually want to look at it."

Harry crossed the room and picked it up. In Malfoy's unmistakable handwriting were the words _To Harry Potter_ written on the outside of the parchment. A neat little piece of twine held the rolled parchment together. He undid it, a look of confusion on his face, wondering what Malfoy could have possibly sent him. He unfurled the parchment and took a sharp intake of breath.

He could be looking at a black-and-white photograph of himself. It didn't take him long to figure out that it was a quill-and-ink drawing of his head and shoulders, lots of tiny, meticulous, feathery lines converging to make a breathtaking portrait. Malfoy's tiny utterance of _'I like to draw…'_ earlier when they were talking on his bed didn't need to be quite so humble, Harry thought in amazement. _'Not very good', my arse, _Harry thought immediately after. In minute writing on the bottom right corner Malfoy had written, _'What do you think? I haven't tried so hard on a drawing in ages. This took me three hours.'_ And after that he had written something and scribbled it out, but not very well; Harry could still make out that it said, _'Thinking of you.'_

"Whoa," Ron said. "That's _really _good. I bet a Ravenclaw did it. Did she not put her name on it?"

"Nope," Harry said, biting back a smile.

"Well…maybe she'll slip something else under the door and she'll tell you who she is. I'd like to meet the girl who can draw like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, maybe she'll send me another drawing later on," Harry said. Was he being mean? Yes, he thought he was. He wondered what Ron would do if he knew that a certain white-blonde Slytherin had sent him this.

"Hope so."

"Me too, Ron."

Harry nestled Malfoy's drawing in between his socks in his drawer so it wouldn't get wrinkled. He grinned the entire time he bustled about, getting ready for bed, unable to stop thinking about the day's—and night's—events.

* * *

**End Notes: **On Word, why does it count 'Malfoy' as being spelled incorrectly, but 'Hermione' is just fine? I guess we'll never know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note:** I got this chapter done this morning and I just couldn't wait another day to submit it! I just had this idea that sounded good to me, went with it, and this all came out in about 2 hours. Started it last night, put finishing touches on it this morning. Oh, and I _just _noticed that whenever I would put ten dashed lines to separate parts of the story into new sections, it omits them and just runs it all together. I was just trying to be all fancy, but it didn't work. I guess I'm going to go back to using the three little x's, now. Oh, well.

**Suggested Listening For This Chapter:** "Perfect"—Smashing Pumpkins

* * *

Harry leapt out of bed, buttoning his shirt, knotting his tie, and doing up his trousers in a rush. Today was an important day—the first day of Quidditch season. He needed to run down to the library and slap his name on the sign-up sheet to reserve the pitch for practice.

As Harry was coming _down_ the main stairs, he caught sight of Malfoy walking _up_ the stairway that led down to the dungeons. They locked eyes, stopping for a brief moment before realization dawned on the both of them. Both of them bolted down the corridor, determined to reach the library doors first.

Even though Harry got a head-start, Malfoy was gaining on him fast. Malfoy _did_ have longer legs than he did, after all, thanks to him, Harry, being sallow and malnourished for his entire pre-Hogwarts life. That didn't matter in the air, but on foot, that extra bit of height could mean everything. He chanced another glance back at the blonde and noticed that he was smirking.

_That cheeky bastard's not even trying!_

Had it been more of a long-distance affair, Harry probably would've just given up, cutting his losses. But the two of them were almost a stone's throw away from the giant double-doors, and Harry was determined to at least give it all he had. Malfoy caught up to him, running by his side.

"Do you want me to take pity on you and let you win, Potter?" Malfoy said as they ran.

"_No_," Harry managed, gasping for breath. _This is just like a Sunday stroll for him, isn't it?_

"If you say so…" Malfoy said, and with an effortless burst of speed, left Harry in the dust and slammed the library door in his face.

"Git," Harry muttered, pausing to catch his breath.

Harry walked in as Malfoy walked out. Malfoy gave him another of his smart looks. Harry shot one back and grabbed the sign-up sheet from the front desk. Malfoy was the only one who had written on it so far—not surprising. He had taken the best time, as Harry knew he would—every weekday from four to five, which is what _he_ was going to write down had he gotten there first. However, Quidditch captains were allowed to book two different times—most people chose a weekend time along with their weekday one—but Malfoy hadn't done that. He had taken a small mercy on Harry and let him have the prime weekend slot from ten to twelve Saturdays and Sundays. He imagined Malfoy would come in and fill his weekend slot in later. Harry decided he'd do the same for weekdays…just so the two of them would be even.

When Harry left the library, Malfoy was still standing there, leaning against the wall.

"Hey," Malfoy said.

"What?"

"What are you doing today?"

"Er…I'm going to class…?"

"I mean _after_ class," Malfoy snapped.

"Dunno…why?"

"Because we need to check our potions and make sure they're alright."

Harry raised his eyebrows. It had been three days since they last went up to the Room of Requirement. He had forgotten all about that.

"Meet me at five?" Was he smiling? It was so hard to tell with him sometimes.

"Yeah. Sounds good."

"Bring your other homework," he said, turning on his heels to walk back down into the dungeons, his robes swish-swishing, his meticulously polished boots knifing the stone beneath his feet.

xxx

Each time they agreed to meet up, they'd set the time for earlier and earlier. They were pushing it, Harry and Malfoy both knew that. Maybe they were just floating in the calm before the storm—before the hurricane of dirty looks, hushed whispers, cold shoulders, snickers, and backstabbing really began. And if Ron and Hermione knew what was really going on with he and Malfoy…well, he wasn't quite sure of it _himself_, but if they ever knew that he was doing quite the opposite of what he'd _normally_ do to the blonde…they wouldn't like it, not one bit. Ron would hate him. Hermione would tell him all about Muggle psychology and how he was just experiencing some fleeting fallacy, or something of that sort. He would tell them eventually, for certain—he wasn't the type to keep secrets from friends—but he wanted to be sure what _he _felt before he tried to tell them anything.

All he knew for sure was, he was getting attached. Awfully, awfully attached.

Malfoy was sitting on the top stair of the dungeons staircase, his back to Harry. Harry was always certain to be very punctual when he made plans with the blonde. Malfoys waited for no one, and though a lot of barriers had been broken down between the two of them, some things never changed, and he imagined that was one of those things. He crept over and tapped Malfoy on the shoulder.

There was something that didn't seem right about Malfoy as he rose from his perch. He had a faraway look in his eye, and only gave Harry a fleeting glance before he muttered a "Let's go," and started ascending the main staircase. But Harry didn't question it. That was another thing Harry was sure never changed—Malfoys reveal their feelings on their own time, not when you asked for them to.

When they reached the seventh floor and Harry stopped in front of the Room of Requirement to conjure his thought to open the door, he distinctly heard Malfoy sniffle, then try to cover it up with a cough. Harry graciously ignored it as he strode in front of the entrance three times.

He went in hastily so he might miss eye contact with Malfoy, the fireplace and enchanted candles firing up in his wake. _He'll say what's the matter on his own time…probably._

"Alright," Malfoy said, and it was obvious he was having to force himself to keep his voice even. "Let's continue on with the, erm…the…"

"Hate potion?" Harry offered quietly.

"Yeah…erm…let's…" He threaded his fingers through his hair, the strands falling right back into place like a deck of cards. He kept his eyes to the ground.

"I can't do this right now, Harry," he murmured. He came to sit by Harry on the scarlet couch, sinking down into its overstuffed cushions.

"If you want to talk about something…I'll listen," Harry said gently, like he was trodding on eggshells. He thought of reaching for the other boy's hand, but he didn't.

Malfoy nodded. They sat there for awhile in the silence. Harry guessed Malfoy was trying to compose himself before he spoke. Finally, he lifted his head up and looked at Harry.

"My mother sent me a letter just before I left my room to meet you here. McGonagall delivered it herself so I knew it must've been bad news."

Harry nodded slightly in understanding. How he wanted to say something, anything comforting, to wipe that sorrowful look off of the blonde's face.

"It said…" Malfoy swallowed. He licked his lips nervously. They were chapped. "My parents' trials were held today, and, er…" Another swipe through his hair with his hand. "My mother is being exiled from Great Britain. She's not sure where she'll go. And my father…"

Harry knew what he was going to say before he said it. He braced himself for the news, anyway.

"My father's been sentenced to life in Azkaban."

That did it. There were tears now. Silent, but they were staining Malfoy's cheeks nonetheless. Harry couldn't hold it back anymore. He held out his arms. Not even bothering to hesitate, Malfoy snuggled himself down into his hold, feeling like a young child who had just suffered from a terrible, terrible nightmare.

"I know you don't believe me, Harry, but my father really wasn't a bad person," Malfoy whispered. "He was just always worried about me and my mother…and I know…I just know that he gave up his chance at freedom if they would let me go free and let my mother off easy…I know it, Harry, this is all m-my fault…"

The blonde's left had was fidgeting at a loose string hanging from Harry's sweater. Later that evening when Harry would take off his sweater, he would discover a sizeable hole where the thread had once been.

"I was only fifteen when they made me take the Dark Mark, Harry," Malfoy said. He was just stress-rambling now. Harry let him go on. "I was getting death threats, Harry, I didn't ever want it, but I had to, and Mother and Father didn't want me to have it but they knew I wouldn't survive another week without it. It hurt _so _badly and everyone was looking at me and it was the worst pain in my life and I was so embarrassed. I never wanted this, Harry, I never wanted any of this to happen. And every time I look at my arm I think about Mother and Father and Voldemort and Aunt Bellatrix and Luna and Severus and Dumbledore and I just think of everyone and I don't want it to be there anymore and I don't want my mother to have to run away and I don't want my father to die and I don't want to go home to an empty house when I leave Hogwarts and I don't want to leave you and never see you again and I don't want—"

"Draco," Harry murmured. "Calm down. You're hyperventilating."

"I—can't—stop—Harry—I—"

"Shh, breathe in through your mouth, out through your nose." He had heard his Aunt Petunia say that once to a bawling Dudley who'd just fallen off his bike and scraped his knee on the sidewalk. He didn't much know if it really helped anything, but it seemed to be calming Malfoy down a bit.

Harry wished he could tell Malfoy that everything was going to be okay. But the fact of the matter was, everything _wasn't_ going to be okay. Harry had this unrelenting urge to right any wrong, a true Gryffindor through and through. Normally, he'd shoot off into some wild soiree, Ron and Hermione and an interchangeable cast of others in tow, to save the day and be back in time to get a good night's rest. But this…this was the end of the string. There was no way he could lift the punishment on Malfoy's mother, no way he could save Malfoy's father from Azkaban. Maybe Malfoy would see his mother again—maybe not. It could be years before he caught sight of her again. And he would _never_ see his father. It was a terrible, terrible way to end things. They made it through the war just to be killed in a courtroom. Oh how brilliant the Wizarding justice system was.

"You're my only real friend," Malfoy mumbled. "You have so many friends and everyone loves you and I know that. But I only have _one_ friend and that's you." He was quiet for awhile. Harry rubbed his back in a circle fashion, feeling the blonde shiver and sob under his fingertips.

"I wish I were dead, Harry," he whispered. "I could do it. I wouldn't feel it. And I really, really think I would have done it…but my father always told me never to cancel an appointment for any reason, only failures do that. And I met you right on time, didn't I?"

Oh, that did it, Harry was crying now too. He blinked furiously, doing his best at an attempt to compose himself, and unlatched Malfoy from his torso, to hold him far away enough so he could look him in the eye.

"You listen to me," Harry said. "Don't you _ever_ say anything about taking your own life. I know it's hard. I've thought about it loads of times, trust me when I say that. But that's the selfish way out, Draco. Your mum and dad gave up far too much to save your life for you to just throw it all away like that. Alright?"

His words were sharp, but his tone was soft. He was speaking from experience, Malfoy knew. It sunk in deep. Malfoy nodded dumbly, lower lip quivering. Harry gave him a kiss square on the forehead, hair and all, and let him fall back down into his awaiting arms.

"You can get through this, Draco," Harry said. "I'll be here if you need me…"

Nothing but the sound of the crackling fire filled Harry's ears for some time. He thought maybe Malfoy had fallen asleep. But Malfoy started talking again, after a time.

"McGonagall excused me for the rest of the week," he mumbled. "She told me to 'collect myself' and go up to the hospital wing for a Depression Draught and a Dreamless Sleep Draught for nights. Every day from four to eight I'll be excused to work on the project with you, I've already cleared that up, though."

"You have to stay in the hospital wing all day?"

"Yeah. Maybe when Weasley and Granger aren't looking you could sneak off and come see me."

"Definitely," he murmured in Malfoy's ear.

xxx

That Depression Draught was really something. Malfoy wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. It stopped any negative feeling when he first drank it, but as the day wore on and it started to lose effect, his bad thoughts would trickle back, and it felt like a murderer was creeping up behind him, or something. It made him feel absolutely no desire to get up and do anything, either, which he supposed was actually a good thing, since he had no choice but to lie in bed all day, anyway.

It was eight a.m. Madame Pomfrey had just given Malfoy his Depression Draught, and all Malfoy could think about was Harry, Harry, Harry. Sometimes school would filter through here and there, but mainly it was just Harry. He supposed Harry was the only happy thought in his head to speak of.

He couldn't think in sequences when he was on his medicine, just pictures. Mainly they were of Harry and his collection of gaudy sweaters he was so fond of. Were they all handmade? He would just have to buy Harry some decent ones when Christmas rolled around. He would write Mother and—

His mind went silent. He stared at the ceiling, watching the dust motes drag about the sunny room, until another picture of Harry popped up into his brain.

xxx

When he came to the next time he felt normal—he must have had a good nap. Harry was sitting at his bedside in a beaten old armchair.

"Is it four already?" Malfoy said groggily, eyes half-open.

"Nah…it's just now turning noon," Harry said, smiling at him.

"Then why aren't you down at the Great Hall?"

"Well, I told Ron and Hermione I thought I'd better go up to the hospital wing…that's not _exactly _a lie, I _did_ come to the hospital wing, eh?" He laughed softly.

"Don't blow off your friends for me," Malfoy mumbled, rolling onto his side. "That's not like you."

"I know, but—I mean—they get to see me all the time, and…you don't." Harry dug his elbow into the arm of the chair, holding his head up with his hand.

"We'll see each other in a few hours," Malfoy said with a quiet yawn. "Now go back down there and have lunch, we're both still so skinny, we've got to put some weight back on."

Harry's clothes _were_ pretty much falling off of him, and Malfoy's form-tailored wardrobe was awfully loose nowdays, too. Harry seemed to think of this, because he got up and crossed the room to stand at Malfoy's bedside.

He put a warm, rough hand on Malfoy's arm. "Are you sure? I could stay a bit longer…if you wanted."

And Malfoy _did_ want him to stay a bit longer, stay a _lot_ longer, stay _forever_, if he wanted. But Malfoy knew if Harry were to ever become more than a fleeting fancy…he couldn't drag him away from his friends.

"No…you should go." Shakily, Malfoy pulled himself up into the sitting position. He hugged Harry briefly, arms around the other boy's waist, head pressing against Harry's perpetually empty stomach.

"Your stomach's growling," Malfoy said after he let go.

Harry laughed. "I know it sounds bad, but I've grown so used to that feeling that I don't really notice it anymore."

That made Malfoy sad. He knew that Harry's aunt and uncle had locked him up in a (what was it, a coat closet?) room for his whole life. That's why he was so short and his eyesight was so poor. It made him think of his parents, and how he should be grateful how good to him they always were. Harry never even got to see his parents. What would that be like? Did he still miss his parents as much as Malfoy still missed his, even though he never met them?

He probably did.

Harry ghosted his fingers through Malfoy's hair—it was a quick gesture, like in mid-brush he realized that was a weird thing to do, and rushed it up and ended it strangely.

"I don't know what you're thinking, but judging by that frown it's nothing too good," Harry said. "Stop that. Think happy things. Think about snow. Did you know we got a light dusting today? It looks like powdered sugar everywhere, maybe tomorrow it'll snow for real and we can talk Madame Pomfrey into letting you out for a bit."

"If anyone could do it, Harry Potter could," Malfoy said, giving a faint little smile.

Harry laughed. "It's sad, but you're probably right, Draco." Malfoy liked the sound of his first name coming out of Harry's mouth. Other people made it sound weird. Harry didn't.

"You'd better go before lunch hour's over," Malfoy gently reminded him.

"Oh, right," Harry said. "See you at four."

"Yeah. See you."

Malfoy watched him leave, and when the door shut behind him, the room felt maddeningly empty.

* * *

**End Notes: **I got a lot of 'you should have made it longer's last chapter. I tried to do that this time. :P


	8. Chapter 8

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note:** A lot of people have been saying, "MAKE YOUR CHAPTERS LONGER." I usually shoot for 1,500 words per chapter, but for this one I nearly hit 3,000. So, in a way, you get a 2-for-1! Haha.

Do you like how, when I need a character to do a certain spell but it doesn't really exist, I just use an English-to-Latin translator and make one up? I'm so cool. ._.;

There's this girl in my Japanese class and she draws the symbol of the deathly hallows (the triangle-thing, y'know?) on the top of her hand in ballpoint pen every day before class. And I'm like...girl, this is college, not seventh grade. :|

**Suggested Listening For This Chapter:** "Thieves"—She & Him. I like the part that goes, "And I know and you know, too / that love like ours is terrible news." Plus, I think just the way it _sounds_ really suits this chapter. Well, the second part of the chapter, anyway.

* * *

This whole thing with Malfoy was getting him more and more confused as the days went by. Wait—shouldn't he be calling him Draco by now? Surely to God they were on first-name basis at this point in their…whatever you want to call it, 'relationship'? He'd called him Draco a couple times, but it had just kind of slipped out. And hadn't Malfoy (Draco?) called him Harry before instead of his usual 'Potter'? Come to think of it, yeah, he did. So…

This whole thing with _Draco _was getting him more and more confused as the days went by.

He knew what he needed. He needed someone to talk to about all of it. Ron was definitely out—even if he thought his friend _could_ give him some helpful advice, he didn't want to drag Ron into his, er, _boy_ troubles. How awkward would that be? He grimaced just picturing it.

No, he needed to talk to _Hermione_. And soon.

Using the Marauder's Map to seek her out, he cornered her in the library. She sat her books down at a desk in a deserted corner of the library, wearing a face that said _'I've been expecting you' _as she motioned for Harry to sit down.

"I need to talk to you," Harry said, voice low. "about—well—"

"About Malfoy, I'm guessing," Hermione said.

"Yeah," Harry said, giving a weak sort of smile. "I wanna know what you think. You're smart…"

Hermione laced her fingers together atop the table. "Well, it's obvious there's something more going on than just working on your Potions project together. Don't think I don't notice the way you look at him."

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"And you spend too much time together for it to be plausible you're _just _doing schoolwork, Harry. Like yesterday. 'Going to the hospital wing,' Harry? Honestly. Malfoy hasn't been in any of his classes, it must've been him you were sneaking away to see, and if Ron were a bit more…er…observant, he'd be on your case with questions."

Harry was temporarily speechless. He thought about what Ron would say if he knew. He knew Hermione would be rational, most likely even understanding, and that's why he would tell her first. But Ron…what would Ron do? Would he still even be his friend? Harry would like to think so, but the truth of the matter was, Ron could be a bit close-minded at times…

"But if you want me to help you," she went on, "you've got to be completely honest with what's actually going on between you and Malfoy, Harry."

_She knows, doesn't she?_ Harry thought. That would be just like Hermione to know something that he, himself wasn't too aware of just yet. He'd been all for talking just a moment ago—but now he just wanted to leave and go to bed and drag through another awkward, confusing day and do that over and over again for however long it was going to end up being, just so he didn't have to dig up some things he might not be ready to…think about yet. But he was here, and she was here, and there was no way of escaping now without making life even more complicated and adding more problems to weed through later.

"All right," Harry sighed. "It's…a bit hard to explain, I…"

She nodded her head, curly, damaged hair rolling off her shoulders. _Go on, go on_, she seemed to say. He went on.

"First of all, I never thought I'd be anywhere _near _Draco with a ten-foot wand, nonetheless…well. And when we were forced to work together for Potions class, and I had no choice but to spend time with him, I…I found out he's actually…not as bad as I thought he was for all these years."

"But there's more than that, isn't there?" Hermione prodded.

Harry could feel his ears grow warm. How was he even supposed to say this?

_Don't bother sugar-coating it—just say it and get it over with_.

"It's like this," Harry began. He felt scared—like verbalizing it would make it all the more real. "I never thought I would ever, _ever_ look at some…some _guy_, and think he was attractive or anything. And that's not…not what brought this about, me thinking Draco was attractive, or something like that. I just got to know Draco more and more and more, and I realized how similar we are, and sometimes he can make me _so_ angry but at the same time I just feel this weird feeling I've never felt before.

I feel like stupid-old, regular-old Harry Potter when I'm around him, not Saviour of the Wizarding World or some other high-and-mighty git. He's the only person besides you and Ron that actually treats me like a normal person. And I just…I really love spending time with him and wish I could see him more and more. I'm talking too much," Harry finished oddly.

Hermione was letting all of this percolate. "Have the two of you done anything more than just on friendly terms?" she said.

"Like what?" Harry said, but knew full well what she meant.

"Well, have the two of you kissed yet?"

"I gave him a little peck on the lips a few days back," Harry admitted softly. "And I, er, kissed him on the forehead."

"Anything else?"

"Hugged him. Held his hand. Not much."

"Have you told Malfoy how you feel about him?"

"No," he said. "I wouldn't even know what to say to him. I don't know what I feel myself just yet."

"Just tell him what you told me," Hermione said. "If he's stuck with you for this long, he's obviously feeling some of the same things. The two of you should straighten out your feelings together."

"You really think that'd work?"

"I don't see why it wouldn't. But I _don't_ think you should tell Ron for awhile. I know you feel like you're lying to him if you don't tell him about it, but I think it'd be best to keep it to yourself until a bit later on."

"Right," Harry said. "Hermione—do you think I'm getting myself into something I'll regret? I mean—given my and Draco's history, and all."

"I know Malfoy can be a stupid prat a lot of the time, but I always knew he was mostly just parroting what his git of a father was telling him at home. I always thought the two of you would have become friends somehow or another, but I was wrong…until now, I suppose."

_Stupid git of a father_. Harry frowned at the thought of Draco's father being not long for this world…or perhaps even already gone, a soulless husk. The utter _not knowing_ was undoubtedly killing Draco. Thoughts like that always made him want to run to the blonde, arms gaping open, and grab him up and squeeze him tight and let him know that he wasn't alone. He wanted to tell Draco he always had a friend, that one friend, that more-than-a-friend-not-quite-a-something-else-or-other-just-yet type of friend that he could come to, if he needed to.

"And you think Ron'll eventually come round?" Harry said.

"Eventually, yes," she said, smiling. "But for now it'll be just yours and my little secret. And Malfoy's, of course."

xxx

Five glorious inches of snow blanketed the Hogwarts grounds. Though they had ditched their uniforms for something much warmer, they still had their school-issue scarves wrapped round their necks—Harry's scarlet and gold, Draco's green and silver. Draco was wearing some complicated sort of winter ensemble, complete with leather gloves, wool turtleneck, jacket, pea coat, and one of those strange hats with the flaps that hang down to keep nippy ears warm. All of it was black, save for his scarf and the gray fluff lining his hat. Harry had just loaded himself down with a long-sleeve shirt and two sweaters and nicked a pair of Ron's old knit gloves. He never was much on fashion—he was warm, that's what he cared about.

Everyone was out today, having snowball fights, building snowmen, ice skating…but mostly snowball fights. Harry and Draco had to dodge a few as they went along, walking perhaps a tiny bit too close to one another down the path. Here the snow was stamped away and hard, but the two of them were heading further out to where it was untouched and fluffy. There was a small embankment going out toward the lake, and they could sit in the dip there and talk and watch the snow fall without anyone in the distance or otherwise being able to see them.

And Draco looked pale, pale, pale—paler than usual, especially contrasted with all his black clothes and up against this white background. A few tendrils of his hair peeked out from underneath his hat; it was limp and messy. He hadn't bothered much in combing it down since he was headed right back up to the hospital wing in precisely an hour and a half…as were Madame Pomfrey's rules and conditions for allowing him this small luxury.

Harry looked at his ghostly skin and his puffy eyes and his chapped lips, wondering if going outside in the snow was such a good idea after all.

"We can go back inside somewhere if...if you want," Harry said, pausing.

Malfoy considered it a moment, furrowing his barely-visible brow in thought. "I'll be fine. I'm not _sick_ or anything. Just a bit under the weather, is all."

"But you might _get_ sick if we're out here too long."

"Well, let's take that risk. I didn't put on all my favorite clothes for nothing."

So they walked on. They finally reached the embankment, the next closest living soul to them about 200 yards away—and even then, they would soon be out of sight once they sat down on the opposite side of the small hill.

As they were walking down the side, Malfoy lost his footing and started to topple down, flailing his arms out in Harry's direction; Harry caught him and cinched around Draco's waist, but they'd already built up too much momentum. They both crashed face-first into the snowy pile below, Draco landing hard on his side, Harry getting the brunt of it with his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

Harry exhaled audibly and took a quick gulp of air. "What was _that _for, Draco?" he said, but he was grinning. He straightened himself into a sitting position.

"I've got snow all in my new hat," Draco said, curtly ignoring Harry's remark, taking his hat off and giving it a good shake. His hair was in such awful disarray that Harry was awestricken—he'd never seen a single hair out of place on that head before.

"What are you _gaping_ at?" Malfoy said, attempting to sound snarky. He tried to bite back a smile and keep the laugh he felt bubbling up trapped in his throat, but he was slowly losing that fight. "Don't look at my hair, you," he said, shoving his hat back on his head.

Harry stood up, grabbing up Draco and putting him back on his feet.

"Well…we're here."

Draco pulled out his wand from his coat pocket. "Watch this little trick I learned. _Estus emanio_," he muttered, waving is wand in a large arc over the embankment. All was still.

"But nothing happened," Harry said bluntly.

"Oh, but get closer," Draco said, obviously hoping he'd say something like that, smiling smugly.

Harry did, and sure enough he felt this strange warmth coming up from the ground. He flopped down. Obviously he should have felt cold, but he felt…cozy?

"Wow," Harry said. "It's like magic!"

Draco didn't even try to cover up his laugh that time.

"You're so dumb," he said, sitting down next to Harry, trading his respectable twelve inches of personal space between the two bodies for a slightly less respectable four or five.

"But how…I mean, _obviously_ it's a charm, but…what kind of charm can do that without melting the snow?"

"It's a conduction manipulation charm," Draco said matter-of-factly.

Harry kind of just stared at him for a minute. "I know, but…_what_ is it, exactly?"

"I said it's a _conduction_ manipulation charm," Draco repeated.

"You're talking to me like I should know what the bloody hell _conduction is_," Harry said.

"That's right, I forgot—you're dumb," Draco said, smiling his tiny smile.

"But seriously," Draco said, leaning against the side of the embankment, falling into the snow (Harry did the same). "How _have _you been doing in school now I haven't been around to give you pointers?"

"Well. Been asking Hermione for a lot of help. Or actually she's been doing nearly all my homework for me."

"Tsk-tsk, you should do your own work, Harry, cheaters never prosper or whatever they say."

"I don't think I'd be _prospering_ in Herbology any time soon anyway," Harry said.

"This is true, that class is fairly useless except when she lectures on Potions ingredients…which is nearly never."

"She did yesterday," Harry said. "Because I remember it was some word you've said before."

"Really, what was it?"

"I don't remember," he said, laughing at the sky.

"A lot of good _you_ are," Draco laughed.

The snow falling down on them was cold as it hit their faces, but quickly turned warm if it hit anywhere else near them. Harry watched it sprinkle like giant grains of salt from a giant shaker before he brought up the real reason they were out here to begin with.

He turned on his side so he could look Draco in the eye; Draco saw him moving and turned on his side as well. Their faces were only about a foot apart.

"Draco, I think we should, well…_talk _about some things," he said.

"Talk away," Draco said, using one of his arms as a pillow and staring right down into Harry with those eyes of his.

"Well…I mean…shouldn't we tell each other…you know, where we stand, how we…you know…_feel_ about each other?" Try though he might to make sense, his speech was jagged with Draco _looking_ at him like that, his face arranged in complete emotional equilibrium, his pea coat and trousers dusted with snow, wearing that silly ear-flap hat. How could Draco look so collected when Harry was _trying_ to tell him something _important_, here?

"I think we should. You first."

"Er," Harry said, licking his lips. "All right…well. I…well, I know we've never got on before this, but…I mean…we've actually got a lot in common. Or we see eye-to-eye, rather. Yeah," Harry said, his words not coming out much better than last time.

"Mmhmm," Draco said. He reached his gloved hand up and brushed a snowflake off the tip of Harry's nose. "That's true. Anything else?"

"Yeah," Harry gulped. "Well…we've been spending a lot of time together lately. And I…I like you, Malfoy," he finally managed. "I like you a lot, actually." He tittered.

"I hate to admit it, but…" Draco said. He pulled himself closer to Harry, mere centimeters away from his face. "I really like you, too, Scarhead."

Without any sort of warning—although Harry didn't mind much about that—Draco kissed him full and square on the lips, quite literally taking his breath away at the sheer unexpectedness of it all. Draco reached a hand up to Harry's face, briefly brushing at Harry's jawline with his thumb before moving his hand downward to rest at the nape of Harry's neck. Harry caught onto the situation quickly, meshing his lips with Draco's with equal fervor, putting an arm around Draco's back and clasping onto the blonde's shoulder.

After a few seconds Draco pulled his lips away with a satisfying smacking sound, but Harry was having none of that. He grabbed Draco's lips with his own again, feeling those chapped lips curl up into a smile. A part of him couldn't believe what he was doing, but the entirety of the rest of him was very much enjoying itself.

Harry was the one to pull away this time. Draco whispered something Harry didn't catch.

"What was that?"

"I said, I'm so worried someone's going to come round here and find us," Draco said.

"Can't see why anybody'd walk out this far," he said. "We're fine."

"Unless someone's been looking for you all day and has tried everywhere else, mate," a voice very familiar to Harry said. He could hear footsteps coming toward him. He and Draco both sat up in a rush, faces reddening at being discovered.

He turned his head to look at the person who'd found the two of them and gasped in sheer disbelief and confusion.

* * *

**End Notes: **You'll find out who the "mystery character" is next chapter if you haven't already figured it out. I'll give you a hint—it's not a girl! I guess that was self-explanatory, but ehhh-hh-h.


	9. Chapter 9

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **I got a lot of inboxes and comments and whatnot on who you all thought was the "mystery character." Some of you guessed Blaise Zabini—you were sort of on track, what with thinking outside the box and all! But most of you guessed Ron. That would be the obvious choice, wouldn't it? And that's _precisely_ why I chose not to use Ron. No one guessed correctly, but you weren't supposed to know it, so don't worry! :P I think you'll all be pleasantly surprised with who the "mystery character" is. I just really wanted to do something different with this story and throw something different into the mix. Enjoy! :P

**Suggested Listening For This Chapter: **"Good Days Bad Days"—Kaiser Chiefs

* * *

Harry leapt to his feet, running to give his intruder a gruff, back-slapping hug.

"_George!_" he said, so surprised he didn't know what to do with himself. "How—what are you doing here?"

George had let his hair grow long again, obviously to cover up the hole where his right ear used to be. He was wearing a turtleneck, trousers, loafers, and a very gaudy belt buckle that weren't quite as nice as Draco's wardrobe, but certainly not your typical Weasley attire. The freckles peppering the bridge of his nose had gone into a pale remission for the wintertime weather. His all-too-familiar lopsided grin played across his face.

"Ron told me about how you lot got to come back and finish up your last year, so I thought I might be able to get in on it as well," George said. "Not sure if you remember or not, Harry, but I didn't exactly finish _my_ seventh year, either."

Harry couldn't help but remember why George hadn't finished school and laughed. "Oh, right! So, McGonagall's just gonna let you jump on in and finish up, eh?"

"Only if I take after-hours remedial lessons with all the professors," George said, screwing his face up like he had a bad taste in his mouth. A puff of icy wind blew by and lifted the hair away from the right side of George's head. Harry couldn't help but look at his ear—or lack thereof, actually. George saw him staring.

"Oi, I should tell you, if you're needing to talk to me do it over on the left side," he said, motioning his hands over the side in question. "Can't hear so well with this gaping hole in me head here, eh, Harry?"

"I suppose not," Harry said.

"Who's your friend down there you were snogging just a bit ago?" George said. Harry had forgotten all about Draco, truth be told. He was still sitting in the snow, just staring. Harry rushed over and pulled him to his feet.

"Oh, this is—"

"That's Malfoy, that is!" George said, beaming. "Didn't recognize you without that ugly scowl on your face, there." He clapped Draco jovially on the shoulder. "'S been awhile since I've seen you, you turned out right handsome! Harry's lucky to have such a _swanky_ boyfriend." He winked over in Draco's direction, and Draco looked as if he wasn't quite sure whether he should be flattered or mildly disturbed.

_Boy_friend? Was that really what Draco was to him now?

"Anyhow, I'm rooming with you and Ron, so we'll be a bit cramped, but I didn't figure you two'd mind," George went on. "When you're not busy with Luvvie, there, we need to get together and do some catching up, yeah?"

"Okay, but," Harry laughed, "it's only been three months since I've seen you."

"A lot can happen in three months, Harry," George said, raising his eyebrows at Draco.

"Well, I'll let you two carry on now, anyway. Just wanted to find you and let you know I was here."

"Right, see you in a bit."

"You bet, Harry," George said, turning on his heels to walk away, ginger hair and electric blue sweater standing out brilliantly against the snow.

"You don't think he'll tell anyone, do you?" Draco said.

"No, he'd never," Harry said. "I've caught him with his fair share of boys as well."

"You _have_?"

"Yeah…Fred was always the one who was crazy about girls, George never really was…" Oh, Fred. He couldn't even _imagine_ what it would be like to lose a twin. As he watched George's body grow smaller and smaller against the horizon, he thought how lonely George looked without his mirror image at his side.

"We'd better start heading back or I won't make it up to the hospital wing in time," Draco mumbled, kicking at the snow with the tip of his boot.

Harry looked over at him, and the blonde was very careful to ignore his gaze. He couldn't quite read his facial expression, but he was fairly certain he was none too happy at being cast aside and forgotten at George's arrival.

"Sorry about that," Harry blurted. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine, Harry," Draco said softly and curtly, but the look on his face was the exact opposite of his tone.

_Dammit_, Harry thought. _Why've I always got to go and mess everything up?_

xxx

Harry got Draco up to the hospital wing with just enough time for him to pull his clothes off and hop into a hospital gown, which he did behind the modesty of the privacy curtain around the bed. Once tucked under the sheets, Harry ducked under the curtain and wrapped Draco up in a hug, which, to his dismay, was received unenthusiastically. Draco placed a faint kiss at the corner of his mouth and muttered a goodbye and a 'see you at four.' Harry took that as his cue to leave, departing with very muddled thoughts indeed.

He walked into the Great Hall for lunch and discovered George grinning at him, motioning him over to sit next to him. Harry couldn't help but smile at his overly ecstatic face and he plopped down beside him.

"Blimey, guess I forgot how bleeding _hard_ school was," George said. "Not just the lessons I'm talking about, either, I'm so used to Apparating everywhere I just wanna off myself when I see all those _stairs_ I've got to climb."

"I've got Astronomy next to Potions," Hermione said. "So I've got fifteen minutes to walk from the seventh floor all the way down to the basement. I've literally got to run to make it there in time."

"Oh, well going _down_ the stairs is cake, you just slide down the banister!" George said through a mouthful of baked potato.

"I'm not so sure I could manage that in a skirt," Hermione said, smiling.

"Well," Ron said, "at least you don't have to walk all the way from Herbology to Defense Against the Dark Arts, that's a nightmare, especially when it rains or snows or something, and it's all uphill and _every_ time I get on the staircase when it's about to move and…"

The random chatter continued on like that, everyone around them pitching in to keep the meaningless small-talk about classes and walking and being tired and all the homework they had to do going strong. It was like with George there, everyone was so willing to open up and just _talk_. Talking about nothing was something no one had done in a long time—it felt good, familiar.

"Right, Hermione, just today McGonagall gave me twelve inches to write about the properties of transforming small rodents or some rubbish. Can you believe that, my first day back, and all! Oi, Fred, could you pass me the pum—"

He stopped, his once joyful face immediately turning stony. It was amazing how fast the color managed to drain from his face. His fork dropped from his limp hand, clattering noisily on his glass plate. He covered his mouth with both of his hands, eyes wide.

"George—" Hermione started.

"Don't worry 'bout it, George, just shake it off," Ron muttered, but he was obviously bothered about the whole thing too—but not nearly as much as George. Ginny craned her neck over from her seat next to Neville, brows knitting together in concern, but she didn't say anything; she knew nothing she could say would make this situation any better.

George wasn't moving. He looked as if someone'd Petrified him. Harry patted him on the back. "It's all right," he said softly.

Everyone at the Gryffindor table and a number of adjacent Hufflepuffs was looking at George—Harry felt bad for him, wishing everybody'd all leave off and mind their own business. George took his hands away from his mouth.

"I do that all the time," he murmured. "Like he's still—"

His eyes welled up with tears, but he blinked furiously to keep them from falling down his face. Hermione was tearing up, as well, and Ron looked like he would very much like to cry but didn't want to embarrass himself. Most people had curtly looked away by now. Harry couldn't help but reach over and give George's hand a brief, but comforting, squeeze, which he distantly felt bad about once he thought of Draco up in the hospital wing, completely unawares.

"What is going _on_ here?" Professor McGonagall whispered. Apparently she had snuck over from the teacher's table when no one was paying attention, having caught sight of George dropping his fork and clapping his hands to his mouth. George was blinking so quickly it was preposterous, trying to keep his tears from coming down in public.

"He's just asked _Fred_ to pass him the pumpkin juice, Professor," Neville politely whispered to her, as no one really knew what to say in response.

"Oh, I just _knew_ it was a bad idea to let you come back, George…" Professor McGonagall said, shaking her head. "Come with me, dear, we'll get you something to calm you down in the hospital wing."

George did as he was told, lower lip quivering, two giant tears plopping down on the wood of the table before he was whisked away, McGonagall putting a bony arm around his shoulders.

Dinner was pretty well ruined after that, because no one felt like eating anything. They picked around at their plates for a bit before Ron stood up, sighing audibly.

"This is stupid, let's just leave," he mumbled, shaking his head.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up, and soon after, Neville and Ginny, Neville quick to grab her hand at the sight of her being at the brink of tears herself. Harry was so happy about George coming back this morning, but now…he wasn't so sure if George could make it by here.

xxx

George was a sniveling mess by the time McGonagall got him to Madame Pomfrey's. He was sobbing noisily, his nose was running like a faucet, and he looked like someone had thrown a glass of water into his face, his cheeks were so wet. McGonagall guided him over to the bed adjacent Draco's, making him sit down. Immediately his hand shot out to grab a few tissues out of the dispenser on the bedside table, trying feebly to clean up his face.

Draco looked over at him with half-lidded eyes—he was just about to drift off to sleep when the two of them came in. He hadn't had his medicine yet because Madame Pomfrey had to tend to an emergency bubotuber pus accident on a fourth year, so his mind was still sharp.

"What happened?" Draco asked him.

George looked at him with puffy eyes, dabbing at his nostrils. "N-nothing, it's just me b-being s-stupid…"

What could _that _possibly mean? But Draco decided to just forget it. He wouldn't want anybody nosing into _his_ business like that, especially not while he was blubbering like a little boy. Draco rolled over on his side to face the opposite wall, listening to the sounds of George's depressing sniffling and gasping for air.

"Not a_nother_ student needing a Depression Draught," Madame Pomfrey said as she came out of her office, white pumps hitting the stone floor like plexiglass. "Go on, Miss Williams, you're free to go," she added to the girl standing behind her, who left the room shutting the door as gently as possible.

"I'm afraid so, Ms. Pomfrey," McGonagall said. "But we can't be taking our chances on these things, you know."

"Absolutely," Madame Pomfrey said. "But I had three in for Depression Draughts just this morning and I'm all fresh out. I'll be back in a bit with some more, it'll just take a moment…"

With a nod, she whisked back into her office to brew something up. McGonagall went over to George and patted at his shoulder.

"Don't worry about getting that essay done tonight, George, dear," she said. "Just get it to me before the week's over with." And with that, she departed.

Draco pouted, pulling the bedcovers up to his chin like he used to do when he was upset as a child. He saw the way Harry had looked when he locked eyes on George—all happiness and smiles. And he wasted no time in giving the redhead a big hug, did he? Harry forgot all about him, leaving him alone in the snow. Stupid George, with his stupid red hair and his stupid crooked smile and that _atrocious _silver belt buckle of his. Draco was handsome, there was no denying that—but George was…he was unconventionally _cute_, he had to admit. And that's not even getting into the fact that Harry had known George longer, and the fact that Harry'd revealed George fancied _men_. Could he possibly…have some competition?

But George was in here for a Depression Draught…what could bring him to need one of those, he wondered? His Slytherin urge to nose himself into other people's business was driving him mad.

Madame Pomfrey bustled out of her office carrying a folded hospital gown. "Up you get, dear," she said to George, and the redhead in question stood on wobbly legs. "Pull the curtain around you and get changed into this." She fussily turned down his bedcovers and left him to have some privacy.

Once changed, he reopened the curtain, which Draco thought odd. The only reason _his_ were open was because he was the only one in the room up to five minutes ago, save for the unfortunate fourth year, but she was hidden away in Madame Pomfrey's office to preserve her dignity. In fact, he'd close his own curtains so that git didn't stare at him…perhaps in a moment.

"Malfoy?" George called tentatively. His voice still sounded wet with tears. Draco rolled over and looked at him.

"What?" He'd meant it to come off mean, snarky. But his ability to do that when situations didn't call for it was steadily crumbling as he spent more and more time with Harry the Chivalrous Gryffindor. Instead of sounding superior, he merely sounded mildly disinterested. He kicked himself on the inside.

"Do you know what it is they're giving to me, I mean this depression whatever, what exactly is it supposed to, I mean, how is it going to, I don't want it if it's gonna, have you ever—"

Stress babbling. _Been there, done that, bought the bloody tee shirt._

"Weasley, stop talking, you're making absolutely _no_ sense." There, a bit of the old Draco was coming back. He shifted himself into a sitting position. George immediately quieted, eyes wide.

"Look, I don't know what you need it for, but Depression Draughts make you calm down and forget everything for bit. No big deal. Just calms you down."

"But not _permanently_, right?" George's white, white hands gripped the sheets. "I mean if I drink it I'm still going to remember Fred, aren't I? I won't forget Fred?"

Draco's face softened. _Fred_. That's what this was all about. Normally he wouldn't give a damn about someone else's problems like that but he knew how terrible it was to lose someone needlessly. _ Nonetheless_ an identical twin brother—how would it even feel to lose your other half?

"No. Not permanently. Just for a little while. To make you feel better," he said quietly.

"Malfoy, it's none of my business really, but…who did you…I mean, why—?"

"My dad," Draco said. "Azkaban," he muttered as an afterthought.

"Sorry," George said.

Draco nodded, looking down at his legs.

"All right," Madame Pomfrey said, emerging once more from her office carrying two goblets of thick purple liquid. She handed one to each of them. "Malfoy, you know what to do with yours. Fred, you need to drink every last drop, then lie back and relax, all right?"

"I'm not_ Fred_, I'm _George!_" George cawed, a fresh outcropping of tears prickling in his eyes.

"Oh, sorry dear, so, so sorry!" Madame Pomfrey said in a rush, shock painting her face. She patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Sorry, sorry, here, drink up, you'll feel better…"

When the two of them had forced down the last of the grape-tasting liquid, they both lie back on their bed, staring at the ceiling. Draco was getting accustomed to the feeling, so it didn't bother him much, but he could tell it was freaking George _out_.

"It's gone, he's gone, I can't, what—" George muttered.

"Shh," Draco said. "Forget about it, just relax."

George shot up in bed, the draught closing his depressing thoughts off and immediately opening it to something happy. "Let's play a game."

"Huh?"

"You got water in your ears, mate, I _said_ let's play a game."

Under the effects of the medicine, Draco was overly intrigued in this concept, like maybe a seven or eight year old boy would be. "What kind of game would we play in _here?_"

George pawed through his pile of clothes at the foot of his bed and pulled a box of well-worn, charred playing cards out of his pants pocket.

"Oh, Exploding Snap!" Draco said with a little too much enthusiasm. "I used to play that game with my nanny when I was a kid."

"Fred and I used to play it all the…I love this game, I used to play it all the time when I was in school." He put a finger to his chin, a hazy gloss in his eyes. "Well, suppose I'm in school _now_, but you get what I mean, yeah?" Draco nodded.

"Let's get down in the floor and play a round," George said, running his fingers lovingly over the flimsy cardboard casing. Draco opened his mouth to say something, but George seemed to read his mind because he added, "Don't worry, you'll remember how to play it in a jiff, we'll have a practice round the first go."

George stood up, heavy-lidded, stumbling. He grabbed his pillow and his blanket off of the bed, throwing his pillow on the ground in the space in front of their two beds. He sat down on it and wrapped his blanket around his shoulders like a shawl. Draco decided he should probably do the same, arranging his pillow and blanket, facing George.

"We'll probably get in trouble," Draco said casually.

"I love getting in trouble," George smiled. "I'll be the dealer. Classic version or Patience version?"

"Which is the one where you turn the cards over one at a time? That's the one I used to play."

"That'd be the Patience version, then, we'll do that." The cards shuffled themselves automatically in George's hands.

"Wait, aren't we supposed to have our wands to play this?"

"You can, but it's _much_ more fun to slap at the cards with your hands, don't you think?"

"But won't that _hurt _when they explode?" Draco frowned.

"Only a bit, but I don't reckon we'll be feeling anything right now, anyhow, we're pretty doped up."

"Oh, right," Draco said, a ghost of a smile playing on his face.

"Let's get going then. Now, when you see two cards that mach each other—"

"Slap it."

"Right, and try and get to it before I do. With a wand you tap one, then the other, but you can use both hands to slap both at once, I think that's more fun anyway."

"Right."

"You get it?"

"Yeah."

"Well, let's have a go at this, then, shall we?" George grinned, dealing out the cards with dramatic slowness.

All morning long Draco had been scowling and gritting his teeth over George being back at Hogwarts just out of the blue, stepping on his territory, capturing Harry's attention with nothing more than a smile and a flush of hair. Maybe it was the medicine talking, or maybe it wasn't, but…but maybe _this_ particular Weasley wasn't so bad, after all.

George had slapped two matches, Draco one. Their reaction time was pretty slow and they weren't noticing a few matches that were already sitting there—their thought processes were floating in and out, but somehow that made the game about ten times more enjoyable.

Less than half the deck was left in George's hands. He had his hand poised above the deck to deal another one, when two pairs neither of them managed to see exploded in their faces, making a _pop-pop-pop_ sound and shooting grey spurts of smoke. Both of them shrieked, then laughed.

"_What was that?_" Madame Pomfrey bawled, hustling out of her office, looking horrified.

"Just playing a game of Exploding Snap, Madame Pomfrey, you can join us if you like," George said, throwing his blanket up over his head like it was a hooded cloak, leaving only his face and a few strands of hair exposed. "There, can't see me underwear through the gown anymore, come sit down with us and—"

"Absolutely not_,_" Madame Pomfrey snapped. "Of all the things—I should have never—_get back in bed, the both of you, get out of the floor!_"

George's face crumpled. He looked like a ginger-haired kitten someone'd left out in the rain. And he said nothing. He just _looked_.

"Oh, fine, stop that," Madame Pomfrey said. "You can play your little game, I suppose, if you'll _stop_ with that face, _George_." And she was very careful this time to call him _George_, and not _Fred_.

George beamed at her. She chuckled, turning on her heels to head back into her office.

"You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Malfoy, you should write that down somewhere," George said, and Malfoy grinned at him. Three more pairs of cards exploded and they started in shock again.

"So I've got my mum's homemade bread on my mind right now, what's on yours?" George said, gathering up the cards to deal them again—their current game was completely lost by now.

"Harry," Draco said unashamedly, which under normal circumstances he most certainly would be.

"Figures you're thinking about your boyfriend," George laughed.

"He's not exactly my boyfriend yet," Draco said.

"Ah, just _seeing each other_ right now, yeah?" George said, waggling his eyebrows. "I remember when I tried to sneak around and see this Muggle guy once…"

And they talked and talked like that, and dealt cards, and screamed, and laughed, until Madame Pomfrey came out of her office with an annoyed look on her face saying they needed to get some rest, which really meant to stop making noise. They both grabbed their bedthings and climbed sourly back into their beds.

"All this time I thought you were a prat, but you're all right, Malfoy," George said as he closed his eyes.

"You, too, Weasley."

"Stop calling me Weasley, that's me dad's name, call me George."

"Suppose you…can call me…Draco, then…" Draco mumbled, starting to nod off.

And he didn't get a reply because George was out like a light. Draco soon followed suit, the room filling with deep breaths and soft snores.

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**End Notes: **Could there possibly be a love triangle in the making? WHO KNOWS? :O And the actual reason _why_ George decided to come back to school will be explained next chapter. And I know I loaded George up with lots of stereotypical British catchphrases, but that's just...how I think he'd really talk, if he were really real. WHO KNOWS?**  
**

Oh, and I felt the need to explain the part where, at the beginning of the chapter, it says, "The freckles peppering the bridge of [George's] nose had gone into a pale remission for the wintertime weather." My little sister and I are 1/4 Irish. The only Irish thing I have is the palepalepale skin, but my little sister's a flat-out ginger like my dad. In summer, her (and my dad's) freckles practically _explode_ all over their face and arms, but in winter, you can barely even tell they're there. I honestly don't know if that's common knowledge or not, so I thought I'd better explain it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **For some reason or another...I really, really like how this chapter turned out. Hm.

Oh, and I'm currently writing a chapter for 'Institution,' but it's not very popular at all. That's really discouraging...if it weren't so _fun _to write I definitely would have stopped. But that's the main point of writing is because you think it's fun, right? Right!

**Suggested Listening For This Chapter: **None. D:D:**  
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"It's been ages since I've done this, Harry," George said. He was suited and booted in Quidditch padding, the handle of a school broom resting in his palm, heels digging into the soft earth of the Quidditch pitch. "If I'm rotten at it, be honest, yeah?" He stared out into the winter sun.

"Okay," Harry said with a grin, giving him a nod. "Let's see what you can do."

Harry blew the whistle hanging around his neck and everyone mounted their brooms, rising into the air. At this point in the Quidditch tryouts, Harry pretty well had everyone he wanted picked out; now he was just trying to find two new beaters for this year's team. Craig Peterson, a stocky, promising-looking fifth-year was up for blind side beater, and George said just this morning at breakfast he'd like to give a go at being open side beater again. Harry said he didn't think that was such a great idea, reliving memories and all, but George said it'd really help to keep his mind off things. _If_ he made the team, that is, he was hasty to add. He didn't want Harry's pity, he said. If he wasn't any good, don't put him on the team, no harm done.

The scrimmage game was slowly picking up. Harry was at least glad to see that George still handled himself well on a broom, remembering how to balance himself and clamp onto the broom with his legs, to keep his arms free for incoming bludgers. He gripped his beater bat in his hands, a fiery determination in his eyes that Harry was glad to see flickering again.

A bludger whizzed through the air, hurtling straight for Dean Thomas, one of the newly-appointed chasers. Peterson was only a few feet away and could have easily flown a quick left and blocked it, but his eyes were elsewhere. George knelt low on his broom, zigzagging through the cacophony of other players, and managed to swoop in front of Dean just in time, his beater bat connecting with the bludger with a satisfying _thunk_. The ball soared in an arc toward the opposite side's team.

"Brilliant, George!" Harry called. George looked behind his shoulder, giving Harry a smile and a quick thumbs-up before he darted off to block more players. Harry felt a flooding rush of relief. He was so sure that George wouldn't be able to do this, that he would have to lie and tell him he was good; but the truth of it all was, he really _was_ good. It was pretty evident he was having trouble without having Fred for rebound, but he wouldn't be mentioning that to anyone…

Harry let his team go at it for some twenty to thirty more minutes, watching how they meshed with one another. He wasn't sure about putting Seamus Finnegan up for one of the chaser positions given his abysmal clumsiness, but he could definitely hold his own on the field—somehow. Ginny seemed sour to have been booted back down to chaser, Harry having been back to fill his old seeker position, and her performance showed it; then again, her attitude was probably directed more towards _him_, in general. Harry looked down into the stands, seeing only a handful of people—one of those people being Neville, holding up a sloppily-painted sign reading GO GINNY in big red letters. Harry could see Neville's smile, even from that high up in the air. Neville was the rebound after Harry, sure, but Harry genuinely hoped Ginny forgot about him and fell for Neville as hard as Neville had obviously fallen for her.

And then there was that new beater, that Craig Peterson fellow. His performance had been about average, Harry guessed, but he missed some easy saves. Doing that while you were a beater could get someone's head knocked off. He'd be having a serious talk with Peterson after practice, and if he didn't shape up, he'd have to find someone else—which he really hoped he didn't have to do.

Harry blew his whistle two times in succession, which signaled them to decelerate and dismount. "Great practice, everyone," he said, flushed. "Oh, but Peterson, I've got to have a word—"

"I know, I know," Peterson said, putting his hands up defensively. "I was nervous, that's all…"

As Harry put his hands on his hips and Peterson crossed his arms at his chest, engaging in an increasingly heated conversation, George wiped sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve. He looked up in the stands, seeing who was left. Most had tottered off, with the exception of Neville sitting next to an uncomfortable-looking Hermione…and a certain white-blonde he could barely even see, a tiny dot shrunk into the furthermost corner of the stands.

George slung his leg over his broom and lazily flew up above the rows of seats, coming to land pertly one row in front of Draco, dismounting and coming to sit next to him.

"Harry'll never tell me the truth, you know," George said. "How'd I do out there? Suppose I could count on you to be brutally honest, eh?"

Draco's nose was pink. His first day out of the hospital wing and he'd caught cold. He sniffed softly and blinked his itchy, swollen eyes.

"I suppose you'll be a formidable opponent…though I'm not so sure about your sister…"

"Ginny's just a bit miffed about Harry breaking it off with her, that's all, she'll come round eventually," George said. Draco allowed himself a triumphant smile.

"Oi, don't act so happy about that," George said, giving Draco a playful shove. Or, Draco _thought_ it was playful, anyway. "What're you doing here, anyway, making googly eyes at Harry in his Quidditch uniform?"

"Hm. Perhaps," Draco smirked.

"You're something else, you are," George said, laughing. "Say, do I look half as nice as Harry in _my _uniform?" He stood up and did a little ballerina twirl, robes swishing in Draco's face. The blonde's face instantly reddened, wishing terribly that something would—

"What's that about my arse, George?" Harry said, grinning. Sweat had misted his face, a smudge of dirt streaked across his cheek, and his hair was in wonderful disarray. This lovely sight made Draco's cheeks turn redder still, but by the grace of God the sun had started going down and it was hardly noticeable. He squirmed around uncomfortably, trying to keep his composure and mild disinterestedness to the whole situation, but it was getting harder by the minute. He hoped he was still looking sophisticated, but he doubted he did.

"Nothing, Harry, just getting a few points in on your boyfriend in case something goes awry between you two," George said, digging his elbow into Harry's ribs.

Harry laughed, giving George a shove, which nearly made George topple down the stands—which caused Harry to grab at his arm to catch him, which caused _Harry _to lose his balance, which caused _Draco_ to leap up and grab two fistfuls of his Quidditch robes, which did nothing but pull Harry's arm free, which caused _all three_ of them to fall into a horrifying downward spiral. Just as Draco's face slammed hard against Harry's knee, and Harry's chest smashed George's arm, and George's entire left half smacked against one of the benches, he felt himself floating. He was temporarily suspended in midair before he was lowered gently back into a sitting position in the stands, wedged between Harry and George. All three of them were clutching at their chests, gasping sputtering breaths.

Draco looked round to see the caster of the spell that had saved them all and felt a mixture of terror and relief that an angry Hermione was marching toward them, wand gripped in her fist.

"We're in for it now," Harry choked, watching as Hermione stomped toward him.

"_Honestly_, Harry," Hermione scolded when she finally reached the trio, her face turned down into a scowl. "What were you thinking? _Shoving_ someone while they're hundreds of yards in the air. You could've all been _killed_, you were lucky I just happened to look up and see you falling to your _death_."

"It was all blondie's fault, Hermione," George said breathily, grinning.

"_What_?" Draco gasped. He in particular was most out of breath of them all, having been the most terrified; he spoke in a rush between breaths. "I didn't—you're such a—liar, George, I—didn't do anything—"

"This isn't funny, George, you could've all been _killed_," Hermione repeated, hands on her hips, looking at them like a mother hen. "Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?"

"Sorry, Hermione" Harry said. "Er—won't happen again?"

"Yeah, what he said," George nodded.

Her eyes flicked expectantly over to Draco. Draco would have almost just assumed to have fallen to his death than to have her stare at him like that, it was so uncomfortable and awkward. He briefly considered flinging himself down the aisles before he cleared his throat and looked at her with as blank and uncaring an expression as he could manage.

"I suppose I owe you one, Granger," he said quietly, sticking his nose in the air.

"Actually you owe me _two_, since I'm keeping your and Harry's little _secret_ from Ron and everyone else. But it's mainly Ron you've got to worry about." George snorted at that, because it was so funnily true.

"You _told_ her?" Draco said, switching his attention to Harry, his demeanor changing entirely. His eyes were wide and his lips were slightly parted. He looked as if Harry had just slapped him.

"I did not! I mean—well—I _kind_ of did."

"What do you mean, _kind of_?"

"Your face, Draco, your face, it's so funny!" George laughed, and Harry and Draco both glared at him for a brief moment before turning their attention back to one another. George took a hint and stopped laughing but he was still grinning. There were very few things he could find no humour in. And if the two of them weren't deathly ill, bleeding to death, or lying in a coffin, it could constitute as funny.

"I just needed someone to talk to, Draco, it's nothing. I don't run around _telling_ everyone, or anything like that. I just needed her advice, that's all, and without it I might not have ever had the guts to actually _talk_ to you." Here Harry gave Draco a very meaningful look, eyebrows raised. "I mean, it's not like _you_ haven't told Zabini or Parkinson or someone about us."

"For your information, _Harry_, I _haven't_." It was then that he remembered Draco's choked words of _"You're my only real friend, Harry" _and felt a tiny pang of guilt for bringing it where a snarky look would normally be painted on Draco's face, there was now a very crumpled, almost hurt expression there. Harry would have much, much, _much_ rather seen him angry than…_disappointed _in him.

"Go on, then, tell me who _else_ you've told," Draco said coldly, fumbling absently in his pocket for his handkerchief. When he found it he dabbed delicately underneath his nose. His voice lost some of its bite when he was congested, but it still had power.

"I—no one!" Harry said, voice rising. "The only two who know are standing right here with us, and George found out by accident, I didn't tell him, and even if I _didn't _tell Hermione she would've pieced two and two together and figured it by now!" At this point he was more rambling than anything else. "And why would you _care_ who knew? Don't you feel better when other people know?"

"Sure, why don't we tell the whole bloody _school_, Harry!" Draco said, anger flushing in his cheeks.

"Why don't we, Draco?" Harry said, saying it like he'd had an epiphany. "I mean who _cares _what other people think? I mean I'd—"

"Harry, you can't do that," Hermione said gingerly, interjecting herself into the conversation. Even George's face looked more serious than it ever should.

"Why not?" Harry said, like a child who had just been chided by Mummy for eating too many sweets.

"Because whether you want to be or not, you're a _celebrity_, Harry," Hermione said. "People would kill for you, since—well—you killed for all of us. And if they figured out you were dating a Slytherin, and a _boy_, no less, and an _ex-Death Eater_, to top it all off—Draco would only last a few days before someone murdered him. And your life would be in danger, as well. Did you really not think about that, Harry?"

Actually, Harry hadn't. Not at all. But in hindsight, it was so simple and it made so much sense that he didn't see how he could have missed that. But by the look on Draco's face, the blonde had been doing a lot of thinking about that himself. _How _could that not have ever even crossed his mind?

"And that's why I get so _upset_ when I hear you've just told someone about it like it's nothing," Draco said. And again his face was saddened.

_Please, please, please get angry at me over _some_thing, _Harry thought. _Scream at me, sock me in the face, just stop _looking _at me like that, it's driving me mad_.

"Well, don't worry, your secret's safe with us," George said, patting Draco on the back.

Draco gave a feeble little nod. He stood up. "I'm going to bed," he said. He took a few steps and turned back round. "See you tomorrow, Harry," he mumbled, moving ghostlike down the stands.

Harry stood up to go after him, to talk to him, to do _something _besides sit there and watch him walk away, but George held out an arm to stop him.

"Just let him go, Harry, let him clear his head for a bit," George said. "Both of you are all stirred up and might say things you don't really mean, yeah?"

"Stirred up, I'm not _stirred _up, I'm just really confused right now about why he's getting so upset over nothing!" Harry fumed.

"Sit down, Harry, let me explain something to you," Hermione said, and he knew he was in for A Very Long Lecture. But he plopped down next to George anyway to listen.

"Consider this entire thing from Draco's point of view," Hermione said. "It's one thing if you're a boy. His parents _definitely _wouldn't be happy about that. But you're _half-blood_, and that makes it all the worse. His father expects him to marry into a full-blooded family to continue the full-blooded line, and Draco's main priority has always been to please his father, and—"

"Hermione," Harry interjected. "Draco's father is…gone." _Gone _would definitely be the word, because all technically speaking he wasn't actually dead. He was worse than dead.

"Oh." Hermione raised a hand to her lips to cover them. "I didn't know…Azkaban…?" she whispered, and Harry nodded.

"See…that makes it much worse on him," Hermione mumbled. "He may feel like he's…dishonoring his father's last wishes, being with you."

Again, the thought of that didn't even cross Harry's mind, and if anyone should have realized that, it should have been him—because he was the first and probably only person Draco had told about his father. Why was he so dense sometimes?

"You're probably right, Hermione," Harry sighed, shaking his head. "I'll—I'll go and talk with him tomorrow, after he's had the chance to…cool down a bit."

Hermione and George both nodded their heads in agreement, and they all stood up. "Guess we should head back, then…"

The three of them walked in silence back up to the school. Even though Harry kept an eye out for the slightest flash of white-blonde hair along the way, Draco was nowhere to be found; after he'd cleared out of Harry's line of vision, Draco had taken off running, bolting back to the Slytherin dungeons, stumbling over the earth's bumps in the twilight.

xxx

Draco shed angry tears into his pillow, although he held them back for as long as he possibly could. He felt dumb for crying over something so frivolous, but he couldn't help it. It felt so _bad_ to be around Harry sometimes, because he never thought about _anything. _But at the same time, he felt so happy that he was finally getting a taste of something he'd always had floating around in the back of his mind, and he wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world. But even through all of that, he just wanted to run away, like he just got through doing, and just forget he ever fell into those green eyes, and pretend none of this ever happened. It was all so very, very confusing, and there were so many questions left unasked, so many emotions left untouched, so many, many other things to worry about…

He was scared—genuinely scared. Scared Harry would come to him one day and tell him he wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Scared he might dump him for a more loveable, fun guy like George, whom he could laugh and play pranks and do whatever else with. Scared he might change his mind about the whole thing and get back together with _Ginny—_because she wouldn't bat an eyelash to dump poor Neville and snatch Harry back, Draco knew.

But most of all, he was scared to death because he was falling in love.

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**End Notes: **I re-rented two Harry Potter movies and I forgot about renting them. Now I owe the rental store $60 in fines. I could have bought _all _of them for that much money. I'm so dumb. :|


	11. Chapter 11

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **It's been awhile since I've updated this! Well, it feels like awhile for _me_, anyway. I think it's been about two weeks since I've updated. Sorry for the wait! But these past few weeks have just been a whirlwind of everything you could possibly imagine, and I barely have time to shower and go to school and eat and sleep every day. I'm actually working on a _third _project now, something _not _fanfiction (surprise!) which may get so long that it'll turn into a novel. Wouldn't that be neat? It's about me and my friends, except I turned myself into a gay male instead of a straight female. Ha! The bookstore I go to has a 'Local Authors' section and I've always wanted something of mine to end up there. So I'm working really hard on that, and I updated 'Institution'... so now it's time I worked on this! I'm trying to give everything equal time.

Oh! I got a lot of followers on Tumblr here lately and I'm pretty sure a lot of them are you guys. **I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR TUMBLR ANYMORE SO I NO LONGER GET ON THERE. **You can look me up on Facebook though if you want. I'll be more than glad to inbox you my real name so you can find me. :D

And I completely forgot to say this! Remember a few chapters back when Harry and Draco were in the snow, and I had written that Draco was wearing a black hat with gray fluff and ear flaps? _I found a hat exactly like that at Bass Pro Shops!_ And I bought it, and as soon as it gets cold I will wear it everywhere. This author's note is really long, and I'm just going to stop now...sorry. D:

**Suggested Listening For This Chapter:** I have no idea what would suit this chapter, but my new favorite song is 'Pieces of Truth' by Foxboro Hottubs. You should look that up and listen to it, even if it doesn't go with the chapter. It's got a saxophone solo and everything!

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Luckily the day after Harry and Draco's little escapade was Saturday, and Draco could lie around and sulk all he wanted. He sat cross-legged in his bed, a bottle of ink tottering on his knee, angrily sketching a drawing. He just started drawing and didn't really know what he wanted it to be yet—he just knew he had to do _some_thing to get his mind off of things, and drawing seemed like the best thing. He looked down about halfway through and noticed he'd drawn a picture of Harry again, with his head turned at three-quarters view, which Draco definitely thought was his best angle. Damn it all, he had a favorite _angle _for the git now.

He thought about crumpling it, starting a new one, drawing someone_ else_ for a change. But he was almost dismayed that this was probably his best one yet, and it was borne from anger. Draco sighed heatedly and continued working, still with those harsh, jagged lines. And anyway, Harry would probably feel guilty if Draco gave it to him later. Draco smirked. He was most like his old self when he was angry, which was understandable, because his old self used to be angry all the time. Now, thanks to a scar-headed Gryffindor arse, not so much.

But right now he _was _angry. He knew one of them had to give in and initiate conversation, because their potion was due the next time they had potions class, which just happened to be Tuesday. Needless to say they didn't meet last night, so they hadn't started brewing the binding potion to successfully mix the love and hate potions together. It would take all day today, then the final product would have to brew for a day, so it should be done on Sunday, but Draco always left one day for mishaps when it came to potionmaking.

He spent the most time drawing Harry's messy hair, which was the most fun part of the drawing because he had to use nearly a whole bottle of ink to color it in. But he had just finished quilling in Harry's nose and was about to do his lips. Smile or frown? Or maybe even a scowl? Draco sketched with abandon, barely even paying attention to his drawing with all the thoughts going on in his head. He looked down and his hand had apparently taken a mind of its own, because the paper-Harry grinned back at him with an adorable, lopsided smile.

"Dammit," Draco muttered, making a motion to crumple it up again, but decided against it for the second time. Why did this drawing have to be so…_good_? Ugh.

Suddenly the door to his room burst open, and he half-expected it to be Harry, clad in his Invisibility Cloak. But it wasn't. It was Blaise, which Draco thought incredibly odd because Blaise only came in this room to sleep—despite common misconception, he was actually very sociable. With the right kind of people, that was.

Draco blew on his drawing in a feeble attempt to let the ink dry and tucked it into his Arithmancy book, which he was using as an easel. He put the cap back on his ink and stowed that and his quill onto his bedside table as Blaise walked over to him.

"I was hoping you wouldn't be gone yet. We need to talk about something, Draco," he said, and Draco couldn't read the tone of his voice, which made him all the more anxious.

Draco opened his mouth to say something, but Blaise beat him to it. "And before you get all _wound_ up like you always do, nobody put me up to this. This wasn't anyone's idea but mine. Because there is something _wrong _with you, Draco, and you need to tell me what it is."

"What, are you actually concerned about someone other than yourself?" Draco snapped. "Not likely. What are you playing at?"

"What did I _just _say about getting wound up?" Blaise said, sitting on the edge of the bed by Draco's feet. "I know it may be hard for you to believe, but maybe—just _maybe_—someone's concerned about your wellbeing."

"But you're not," Draco said. "Why would you be? In the Great Hall you talk like I'm not even there, you spend as little time in here as possible, it's probably been a week since you've even spoken a _word _to me—"

"That's not me doing all those things, Draco, that's _you _pushing everybody away. You're doing it with everyone. You're pushing us all away. And it all started when you started hanging out with Potter, and I know he's got something to do with it."

"This has nothing to do with Harry," he said, biting his tongue as soon as he said it.

"'_Harry'_? You two are on a first-name basis now, eh? Care to explain?"

"No, I _don't _care to explain," Draco said thickly.

Blaise sighed. "Look. Draco. I saw the two of you holding hands the day you got out of the hospital wing. I don't know _exactly _what's going on, but I think I've got a pretty good idea."

A cold shock coursed through Draco's body. His heart raced. "You saw—?" Draco mumbled. "Who else—?"

"No one," Blaise said. "But that's part of the reason I've come to talk to you. I don't know _what _possessed you to start something with that git Potter, but you've got to keep it private, unless you _want _someone to assassinate you."

"Right," Draco mumbled. He fidgeted at the cuffs of his shirt.

"Let me ask you something," Blaise said, the bite completely gone from his voice. "Why _did _you and Potter start going together? How could you go from hating him to fancying him so quickly?"

Draco was silent for a moment. Could he trust a fellow Slytherin? Probably not. He was sure the entire House would know about it come tomorrow, especially if loudmouth Pansy found out about it. But was he in danger of someone killing him over jealousy? Not in Slytherin, he wasn't. And he seriously doubted any Slytherins would be gossiping amongst other House members anytime soon.

And it might even feel good to talk about it to someone else.

"We've got a lot more in common than you would think," he said slowly, trying to choose his words delicately. "And…okay. Promise you won't tell anyone."

Did Draco _really _just say that? He wasn't in second year anymore. Plus, it wasn't like skimpy old _promises _held a lot of weight around here. Draco had nearly forgotten that. He was spending too much time with Harry, where a promise was just as good as an Unbreakable Vow and chivalry was alive and kicking. Wow.

"I won't," Blaise said, smiling. Draco was fairly certain his roommate couldn't be trusted, but whatever.

"It sounds stupid, so refrain from making _too _much fun of me," Draco said bitterly. He sighed. "When I'm with him I feel…safe. I really feel like…he genuinely cares about me."

Blaise thought about that. "I could see that," he said, raising his eyebrows and nodding slightly. "Didn't you say one time he saved your life _twice_? He'd save it a third, or a fourth or a fifth, wouldn't he?"

"Exactly," Draco said, and he was more than a little bit shocked that Blaise actually understood where he was coming from—kind of. "But that's not the _only _reason I—"

"I know, I know," Blaise said. "So why don't you tell me about all those other reasons? I mean—what do you guys even _talk _about? I can't picture the two of you _talking _together in my mind at _all_."

Draco couldn't help it—a smile played across his lips as he thought about the two of them talking.

"Well, if you must know—we talk about nearly everything. School. What we want to be when we're older." They still played the Favorites Game often, but he decided not to mention that to Blaise. "And I don't know if you knew this, but he lived in a Muggle house with his aunt and uncle up until this year. And all his stories about different Muggle things are actually pretty interesting, as much as I hate to admit it. Oh, and usually we manage to work in a heated debate about some Quidditch team or other into our conversation, usually…er…well, _I _don't know what all we talk about, we just get on really well, and I never expected we would…"

"And maybe opposites attract," Blaise said, and Draco grinned, no malice present at all.

"It's weird talking to you about this," Draco said bluntly. "Why do you care?"

"I'm not _completely _heartless," Blaise said. "I just wanted to tell you to be careful. And if you run into any snags in your little Potter soiree, you've got someone to talk to. Really. I've got nothing up my sleeve this time," Blaise said with a smile, showing off his brilliant white teeth.

Draco was still a little hesitant to trust him, but he couldn't think of any reason Blaise might have for doing this other than to help him out. After all, now he knew that even when he and Harry _thought_ people weren't watching, they very well might be. They would have to keep their relationship behind closed doors, even the littlest blown kisses and hand squeezes. Great, now it was even _more _complicated. But better to be aware of it now than to end up dead somewhere.

"Thanks," Draco muttered, which was definitely a word he did not use often. "I've got to go find Harry and tell him about this."

"Right, later," Blaise said, hopping off of Draco's bed to sprawl out on his own.

xxx

Draco rounded a corner on the second floor of the castle and literally ran right into Harry. He caught himself on the wall, smacking his hand on a portrait to steady himself, causing a young girl in Victorian dress to run shrieking into an adjacent painting of a little boy fishing in a pond.

"Oh! Draco!" Harry said, astonished. "I was just—er, I was about to—come and find you," he said finally, the initial shock of running right into him steadily subsiding.

"_I _was about to come and find _you_," Draco said breathlessly; the wind had been knocked out of him by thunking his chest against Harry's. "We need to talk. Well—that sounds like it's serious. I mean it _is _serious, but I don't mean it like that, I mean—nevermind. I need to _tell _you something. There, that's better."

Harry stared at him a moment and laughed. "All right, then," he grinned. "Room of Requirement?"

"That's where I was thinking," Draco nodded, and the two of them headed up the stairs. Harry shot a cursory glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was following them and reached for Draco's hand, but Draco yanked it away. Harry looked alarmed, but Draco managed a tiny smile.

"Not here. I'll explain when we get up there," he said quietly.

Harry crossed in front of the door three times, staring down at the ground in concentration, and turned the handle on the last round. It opened, and the two of them walked inside, throwing their bookbags onto the table.

"We need to work on our potion today, too," Draco said, flopping down on the squishy couch, Harry following suit. The love potion was simmering, and every now and then a bubble shaped like a tiny heart would float out and give a pleasant little _pop_. The hate potion was ready to go, as well, crackling and hissing angrily like a mouthful of Muggle Pop Rock candy. When either of them stood near it, just smelling the fumes made them snappy and irritable, so Draco covered his mouth with his sleeve whenever he had to walk over and stir it. But now really wasn't the time to think about potions, Draco reminded himself.

"Right, it's due Monday," Harry said.

"_Tues_day," Malfoy corrected.

"Oh, right," Harry laughed.

"Anyway, anyway," Draco said, waving his hands in front of him to clear his thoughts. "Listen, I've got something to tell you." Harry leaned in close, and Draco could smell the lovely scent of his shampoo. He pushed it out of his mind and pressed on.

"All right. Blaise—er, Blaise Zabini, you know who I'm talking about, right?—told me today that he saw us holding hands when I left the hospital wing that day."

Harry's mouth gaped open. "But—how? There was no one—"

"That's the point," Draco said. "We were so distracted that we didn't even notice he was walking in behind us in plain sight."

Harry let all of this seep down in to his brain. "I wonder who else has seen," he muttered.

"Well, I think we'd probably know by now if someone had seen, don't you? It'd be all over the school, and probably even in the _Prophet_, wouldn't you think so?"

"You're probably right," Harry nodded. "But—Blaise will tell everyone, won't he?"

"I'm still not thrilled about him _knowing _about us," Draco said, scowling, "but I don't think he'd tell anyone. The only people he even talks to are Slytherins, and trust me, Harry, they don't care about you _or _me."

"You've got a point there," Harry said, laughing. But suddenly his face got serious, and he leaned in even closer to Draco, about six inches away from his face.

"But listen," he murmured. "About yesterday."

Draco looked at him, face unreadable. But Harry glanced down at Draco's hands, which weren't fidgeting, which was always a good sign.

"Look. I don't really consider myself a celebrity because…I just did what was _right_. If I hadn't done…what I did…the Wizarding world would have never been safe. I don't _want _cameras flashing in my face, and stories made up about me and published in the _Prophet_, and all these bloody _books _written about me, or tear-out posters of me in _Teen Witch _magazine. And I _definitely _don't want to have to hide our relationship away."

He grabbed Draco's hands in his, grazing his thumbs over Draco's knuckles. "I didn't ask for this. Believe me, I wouldn't have. Just know I'm not…_ashamed _of you or anything. I know this is different. I know you're a Slytherin and I know you're…well, you're not exactly a girl, either," Harry said smiling wanly. "But…I know that it's not just difficult for me, it is for you, too…so…I'm sorry. Really, really, sorry. I want to try and make this work."

Draco tugged his hands out of Harry's hold and clamped his arms around Harry's neck, squeezing him tightly. Harry put his arms around Draco's back, holding him just as hard.

"Me too," Draco said, his voice muffled by Harry's shirt. He nearly blurted _I love you_, but it was way too soon for that. They'd only been at this for a couple weeks, he reminded himself. He didn't want to scare Harry away. He wanted to be careful. He wanted this to be as perfect as a hidden relationship could be, which admittedly wasn't very perfect at all. It would be hard. But if all the secrets and lies meant _this_, meant holding onto Harry Potter for dear life, it would be worth all the hardships he'd have to face. He could do it. He _could_.

He pulled away just enough to get at Harry's face, where he put a dozen or so tentative little kisses on the Gryffindor's lips. Harry's glasses dug into his face each time. He unhooked one arm from Harry's neck and pulled them off, sitting them somewhere he couldn't remember on the couch. He also couldn't remember climbing into Harry's lap, or perhaps Harry had dragged him there, but it didn't really matter.

He had only shared a few pecks with Harry, never anything to boast about, and now that he was completely alone and in no danger of interruption, he was nervously excited, his lungs filling up with an unfamiliar feeling of…elation? It must be. He knew it wasn't the _right _way to kiss, he'd watched enough snogging in the common room to know that, but he couldn't help himself. A couple times he even missed Harry's lips and got the corner of his mouth or his nose or something. Harry laughed, and Draco felt the vibration against his lips, and he laughed too. Harry saw this as an opportune moment to give Draco a proper kiss, a lovely, lingering one, one that made a satisfying smacking sound when he pulled away. Draco grinned. He never saw other people smiling while they were snogging. Were they _both _doing it wrong? Probably so. But what was the old saying? If this is wrong, then I don't want to be r—

Draco felt Harry's lips latch on to his again and a tongue prodding against his teeth, and before Draco could even consciously make a decision, he parted his mouth and Harry's tongue slid right in, rubbing against his. He stiffened. He _really _didn't know how to do this. But he reminded himself that Harry probably didn't either (or maybe he did, and Draco could take his example), so he just tried to mimic what Harry was doing. It was working pretty wonderfully, he thought to himself, and he smiled. Harry felt Draco's lips curl up and he smiled too, and soon they were laughing weirdly in each other's mouths, tongues lazily grazing over one another's. Oh, yes, they were _definitely _going about this all wrong. It was so odd and no one was moaning and screaming in passion and there was no loosening of ties or unbuttoning of shirts or unzipping of trousers. There was just a lot of kissing and pressing up close and giggling.

"We're not very bright, are we?" Harry said after they had pulled away from one another to catch their breath. Draco felt around behind him until he found Harry's glasses, and he put them on back on Harry's face.

"I suppose not," Draco said, still able to taste Harry in his own mouth. He gave Harry a big, wet, deliberately loud kiss on his cheek before standing up. "But really, we've got to get to work on this potion, or else we won't make the due date." He set about pulling ingredients from memory out of the potions shelf.

"Are you sure you don't want to snog the Great Harry Potter some more, first?" Harry said, waggling his eyebrows. Draco laughed.

"Maybe later. If you're lucky," he said, smirking, arranging all sorts of roots and herbs onto the table. "Now get your arse over here and start chopping."

* * *

**End Notes:** I'm actually pretty happy with this chapter because I finally made it _go _somewhere. The previous chapter kind of felt like filler because it didn't mention the potions project at all, which is sort of the whole point of the story...sort of. But then again, I thought I'd better mention Quidditch, so...ugh. Oh well, you guys get it. This chapter is moving it onwards somewhere, I do believe.


	12. Chapter 12

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **I'm updating a lot here lately because I'm broke as a joke and can't afford to go anywhere. Plus, I type 87 words a minute. That's also a contributing factor. **  
**

**Suggested Listening For This Chapter: **Let it Rain - OK Go**  
**

* * *

The moment of truth was now. Draco ladled some of the hate potion and poised it above the simmering love potion, pre-mixed with the sticky-clear adhesive draught, and poured it in, whisking hastily with his other hand. Smoke billowed up from his cauldron, and he coughed as he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut, but he didn't stop his fervent stirring. Ten seconds later the air cleared, and Draco peered into the cauldron's depths.

There it was—a perfect, smooth, sea-green True Reflections potion.

"_Yessss_," Draco muttered under his breath, smirking at his job well done.

"And I didn't do any of it," Harry said brightly, coming to look at the finished product.

"Want to lick the spoon?" Draco said, shoving the special wooden utensil needed for the final part of the potion into Harry's face. Harry reared back.

"_No_," Harry said, laughing. "What does it _do_, anyway?"

Draco's face looked like he was glad Harry asked. "You drink a bit of it, and you'll feel overbearing emotions for how you really feel about whomever you look at. It's most helpful for people in denial, people having doubts about getting married, whatever. You can buy a bottle of it at the potion shop for about 300 Galleons. I'm sure that's why Slughorn wanted us to brew this," Draco said bitterly, rolling his eyes.

That perked Harry's interest. "I want to try some," Harry said, eyes twinkling, reaching over.

"Stay out of that," Draco said, slapping the top of his outstretched hand like a housewitch keeping her husband's greedy paw out of the saucepot.

"But we've got plenty—"

"But that doesn't mean you just _drink_ something, what if you're allergic?" Draco snapped. He grabbed Harry's hand in his. Then Draco stuck his index finger into the potion, rubbing a bit of the stuff on the top of Harry's hand. He lingered there, partially watching for adverse effects, partially enjoying holding the dumb git's hand. When nothing happened, he let go.

"Am I dead?" Harry asked.

"Ex_cuse_ me for being careful," Draco said. "Next time I'll just let you die." He grabbed a fresh phial and uncorked it, spooning some of the True Reflections potion in it. He handed it over to Harry.

"We'll test it out on you to see how strong it is," Draco said.

"You think it's going to hurt me?"

"I thought you said you wanted to try some?"

"…I do, but—"

"You'll be fine. We're only a two-minute walk from the hospital wing anyway."

Harry frowned. "Thanks for that."

"Just _drink _it."

Harry shrugged, downing the surprisingly slick potion in one mouthful. He ran his tongue around his mouth thoughtfully.

"Tastes like…kind of like marshmallows. No, it's kind of like sugar mice. Or maybe—"

Just then, Harry's eyes widened as he stared into Draco's eyes. His grip loosened on the phial in his hand, and Draco grabbed it and sat it on the counter before it could fall to the floor.

Maybe he forgot to put something in there, Draco thought desperately, though he knew he'd done no such thing. He was very meticulous when it came to potionmaking. But maybe one of his "improvements" wasn't an improvement at all, and he'd poisoned Harry. Damn it all, he should've tested it on himself. "Harry?" he called tentatively. "Harry, are you alright?"

"Oh my God," Harry muttered, his gaze never faltering from Draco's eyes. He was seeing things…things Draco wouldn't want him seeing. But he couldn't look away…

"Harry?" Draco's panicked voice called, but it was nothing but a whisper now. Harry felt himself sinking down, down, and down…

It was like he was inside Dumbledore's Pensieve, but he couldn't move his limbs. He was stuck. And currently he was stuck looking at slightly younger Draco. The Draco in front of him was standing shirtless in front of a mirror in one of the boys' shower rooms. He had peeled multiple bandages off of his chest, a box of fresh ones on the edge of the sink. He chewed at his lip and fought back a sob as he dabbed gingerly at his numerous Sectumsempra cuts, all fresh and bleeding. He periodically wiped the blood from his abdomen before it had the chance to soak into the waistband of his trousers.

Wounds from Sectumsempra were different from regular cuts. They were deep. Snape had done what he could, but even he couldn't heal them up completely. And when Madame Pomfrey had peeled his bloodstained shirt away and caught a glimpse of the Dark Mark on his arm, she screamed, handed him a boxful of bandages, and shooed him out.

How Harry could know all of that, he wasn't sure. But he did. The information was there like internal monologue, playing itself in Harry's own voice as he looked at Draco's pink cheeks and puffy eyes and shaking hands.

He had done that. Back in sixth year. That was him. He had put all those marks on Draco, and he wouldn't be surprised if there were still thick scars on the blonde's chest because of it. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't—

But the vision before him swam away, and another came into view. Now he was standing in a lovely parlor room, presumably in Malfoy manor. He was looking at Draco as a small child, perhaps eleven or twelve. The blonde didn't bother trying to hold back his tears now—they poured from his eyes and stained his cheeks. His father Lucius was looming over him, his face contorted in anger.

"What do you mean, '_he said no,'_ Draco?" Lucius said, tone icy.

"I'm sorry, father!" Draco squeaked, his voice not hitting puberty as of yet. "I asked him, I really did! And I tried to be nice, like you said, but he's friends with that Weasley boy and that Granger girl, and he won't talk to me! I tried—"

"_Enough_, Draco," his father growled. "We need Potter to carry out the Dark Lord's wishes, and if you befriend him, we can lure him here. Do you know what that would _mean_, Draco?"

Draco shook his head, afraid to say anything to his father.

"It means we would be in the Dark Lord's good graces for eternity," his father said gravely. "Myself, your mother, you, your children, your children's children…they shall all be blessed by the Dark Lord if we deliver the boy to him."

Lucius gave a very pregnant pause, letting all of that sink into young Draco's head.

"If being nice didn't work, be _nicer_. Do anything it takes to befriend him. It is crucial that you do this for me. For _yourself_."

"But what will happen to Harry if I…if I get him to be my friend and I bring him to you?"

"Never you mind about that," Lucius said darkly. "You'll be leaving that part to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father," Draco said, hanging his head.

The scenery had changed again. Now he was floating above what he assumed was Draco's bed, since Draco was sprawled on his back, eyes wide, on top of the mattress. A faint screaming, undoubtedly Luna's, could be heard coming from somewhere down below. It was ragged, forced, like she was…being tortured. Moonlight from the window splashed onto Draco's silk pajamas and illuminated his face. His eyes were dry, but they were in a perpetual state of petrification. His breathing was shallow, barely even there. His hands tugged at the wrinkles in the bedsheets—the origin of his terrible fidgeting habit.

Once more, his surroundings bubbled and swirled, changing into something new. He was at the Yule Ball, watching Draco twirl Pansy Parkinson around on his finger. But suddenly the room filled with a horrid white light and he found himself tumbling back into the present, a strong bitter taste in his mouth. He was staring into Draco's worry-riddled face, and for a moment he thought he might be having one of those strange visions again, but he looked around and he was back in the Room of Requirement, everything as it was when he 'left.' Except now Draco had dragged him to the couch and propped pillows behind his head.

"Harry?" Draco said. "Feel all right?"

"Yeah," Harry tried to say, but there was something in his mouth blocking his tongue from forming more than a 'mmph' sound.

"Here, open up, you can take that out of your mouth now," Draco said softly, pulling a saliva-coated root from Harry's mouth. When Harry whited out, Draco had riffled through the supply cabinet and found a bit of Mandrake root, which he promptly stuck to Harry's tongue. He wasn't sure if _that _would work, either, but he decided to take a chance. He _really _needed to stop doing that before he killed someone.

"Want me to take you over to the hospital wing?" Draco said.

"No. 'M fine," Harry said, sitting up. His head felt weird.

"So…how was it?" Draco said.

"Weird," Harry said breathily. "I saw…your memories. Kind of like Occlumency. But…a bit different."

"My memories?" Draco said, brow furrowing. "What—what exactly did you see?"

And Harry told him everything, trying to be gentle about it. He gave as few details as possible, so not to stir up bad memories. Draco's face grew steadily more shocked at Harry's newfound knowledge.

"So," Draco said, after all of that had a chance to percolate. "This potion…I must have put too much of _some_thing in it. Because…" He squinted his eyes in thought, trying to calculate things in his head. "It doesn't make you see _your _true feelings about me. It makes you see moments when _I _felt strongly about _you_."

"I think you've just invented your very own potion, Draco," Harry said, hoping to steer the conversation away from Draco's past. He would have plenty of time to ponder about Draco's father instructing him to _be nice_ later on.

"I think this sort of thing is illegal, actually," he said. "Invasion of privacy and all that. Anyway, it's due tomorrow and we don't have time to fix it. As much as I hate to say it, we'll have to turn it in as it is and hope he only grades on color and texture. Because in those areas it's spot-on, somehow."

"That's fine with me," Harry shrugged. "Just as long as it gets a passing grade."

"It'll _pass _if it's in a bottle and has our names on it," Draco said. "But I've never had anything below an O in Potions and I don't much want to start now. I couldn't fix it by tomorrow morning though," he said bitterly.

"Don't worry about it, I'm sure he won't take a taste-test of each one or anything," Harry said. He personally could care less about grades, but he knew they meant a lot to Draco—like they meant a lot to Hermione. Harry couldn't really understand that, but still.

"And if he _does_," Harry said, elbowing Draco in the ribs. "You can take some of my points and add them to your points."

Draco smiled—a real one this time, not just one of his half-arsed face twitches.

"Just one thing, though," Harry said. "If what I saw were times when you had strong memories of me, why did I catch a glimpse of you and Parkinson at the Yule Ball?" He decided he'd better not ask about Luna screaming as Draco listened on his bed—he had a pretty good assumption about that anyhow.

"Oh, that," Draco said. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask." His cheeks pinked.

"Go on, tell me," Harry said, grinning.

"Well…don't get me wrong, I really _did_ have a nice evening with Pansy…" he said, his mind floating back to his crisp white tux and her simple yet elegant lilac party dress. "But I kept…_looking _at you. Wondering…oh, God, don't laugh at me, Harry."

"I can't make any promises," Harry said, poking Draco in the arm. Draco rolled his eyes and went on.

"I kept wondering what it would be like…to dance with you. Out in front of those people and no one caring. It's silly. I know," he said, shaking his head slightly.

"Of course it's not _silly_," Harry said. "But truth be told I didn't really want to dance with _anyone _that night." He laughed.

"That's when you liked that ugly Chang girl, wasn't it?" Draco asked offhandedly.

"Now, in all fairness, Cho Chang was _not _ugly," Harry said.

"Yes she _was_, Harry," Draco said, eyebrows raised, and that started a whole conversation about who was ugly and who wasn't, girls _and _boys. Ginny got pulled in there somehow, and Draco weaseled out of Harry that he never thought she was pretty, just thought she was a very nice girl…and then Harry wanted to know about when Draco dated Pansy, and Draco said he did not _ever_ date Pansy, she was just a _very good friend_, or used to be, anyway, until they grew apart. And upon Harry asking Draco ashamedly admitted that George was cute, in a funny way, and Harry said he had no opinion on the matter because George was like family to him…and they just kept talking on and on and on about who was ugly and who was cute for the better part of an hour.

"We'd best get back to our common rooms before people notice we're gone," Harry said, standing up.

"You're probably right," Draco said, clearing everything up on the table and sticking their homework assignment into his pocket. And while Harry was gathering his things with his back turned, Draco grabbed another phial and filled it up—just in case he wanted to see what this potion did for himself.

"Hey, listen," Harry said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Do you…er, I know you don't like it when people find out about us, but…do you think it's alright if I tell Ron? I feel like I'm lying to him because…well, he is my best mate and I haven't told him about this yet."

Draco bit his lip in thought. He sighed. Did he really have a choice when those green eyes were so persuasive? "Can he keep his mouth shut?"

"I'll make sure he does," Harry said, rushing to give Draco a quick kiss full on the lips. "I think this'll make things easier, anyhow."

"Just…be careful," Draco said. In other words, _don't say anything that might get me murdered, please_.

"Will do," Harry said, and the two of them walked down the stairs together until they had to part ways. Harry was about to blow a kiss, but he forgot that they weren't supposed to show affection in public anymore, so he turned the gesture into an awkward-looking sort of wave. Draco laughed, his voice bouncing off the walls as he waved back, he descending stairs, Harry ascending.

* * *

**End Note: **If it's not obvious, they're being more open with each other this chapter because they 'broke through a barrier' last chapter with their little talk. Don't call me out on it because I already know! Haha.


	13. Chapter 13

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **I've only got a handful of the Harry Potter movies on DVD, but one that I have is a special-edition two-disc set of Half-Blood Prince I managed to catch used for only $15. I just now got around to watching the special features because I was REALLY bored. Anyway, there's this part on there called 'What's on Your Mind?' and Tom Felton (Draco) was the host. He would ask the different cast members questions and they had to say the very first thing that came to mind. He asked Oliver Phelps (George), 'If you were stuck on a deserted island and you could only take one book with you, what would it be?' and Oliver said, '_How to Build a Raft.'_ And Tom was like, '...How...to Build a...OHH, I GET IT.' I laughed. For hours.

And last night I had this dream that Draco was my friend and HE WOULD NOT STOP TEXTING HERMIONE GRANGER. He had a really big crush on her and only told me. And she would never text him back and he was really bummed out. So we went to a bouncy-house together, and we had to cross this bridge in my car that was completely underwater in one part and we had to hold our breath...D: I have dumb dreams.

**Suggested Listening For This Chapter:** Asleep - the Smiths

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When Draco walked down into the Slytherin common room, he was met with more icy stares and sneers than normal. He was instantly overcome with a terrifying feeling that something was wrong. Something…

A small hand grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him into an alcove under the dormitory stairs, behind a green and silver tapestry. "_Lumos_," a familiar voice whispered, and the wand tip of Pansy Parkinson glowed to life, illuminating the harsh features of her face.

"Pansy, what—" Draco said, annoyed, but Pansy motioned her hand to shush him.

"Draco, how can you be so stupid?" Pansy hissed. "Why would you _ever _tell Blaise something so—so _private_?"

There was no mistaking what she was talking about. Draco felt his body instantly grow cold. His knees were wobbly. He leaned against the wall to support his weight.

"He said he saw you and Potter together," she said. "But then you had to go and give him _details_. You're a laughingstock, Draco."

But being a laughingstock wasn't exactly what he was concerned about. "He didn't," was all he could manage to choke out of his throat. "He didn't."

"Oh, he _did_," Pansy said. "You're smarter than that, Draco, you've known Blaise too long to think he wouldn't tell _everyone._ You're lucky he doesn't affiliate himself with anyone other than Slytherins or you'd be dead by now."

_You'd be dead by now. _

"But…"

Pansy put a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll make sure it doesn't go any further than this common room."

"But if I can't trust Blaise, what makes you think I can trust _you_?" Draco blurted, gritting his teeth. He would not shed tears in front of Pansy Parkinson. He would _not_. "I don't need your help, it's done, there's nothing to be done now." He closed his eyes, trying to get a hold of himself. It wasn't working too well. He felt his palms growing moist.

"Stop being so melodramatic, Draco," she snapped. "You can trust me because I'm your _friend_. I know we grew apart, but Blaise was never as close to you as…as I was," she mumbled the last part, but quickly regained her composure. "But you need my help right now, Draco, and you know it. Let someone help you for a change."

A niggling somewhere down in his gut told him he'd be safe in letting himself trust Pansy. After all, how could she make things even worse? She already knew about his little…secret. If she was going to tell everyone, she was going to tell everyone now anyway. Why not…give her a shot? Maybe she really _could _make things better. But Draco still didn't think he should put much stock in her. After all, he'd done that with Blaise, and look where it got him. How could he be so stupid?

He knew full well how he could be so stupid. It was Harry and all his "always look at the good side of people, even if there really isn't one" attitude starting to rub off on him. He sighed. But, he supposed, Harry would never have given _him _a chance if he didn't have that philosophy.

"I suppose you couldn't make things worse, Pansy," Draco muttered, staring at the ground.

"Don't worry, we'll think of something to do to Blaise later," she said, and gave Draco a friendly peck on the cheek. Draco looked at her, surprised.

"I don't have a clue why you'd want to snog Harry bloody Potter," she said, but gave him a look that made Draco think she really _did _know. "But…I think he should know about this. Just in case things get out of hand."

"Things already _are _out of hand," Draco said.

"I think I know how to fix it—blackmail," Pansy said, simpering.

"On every single Slytherin?—Well, now that you bring it up, I suppose it's perfectly possible, but I still don't—oh, whatever," Draco said bitterly. He was done. Just, done.

"I've got this," Pansy reassured him. "You go warn Scarhead."

xxx

As he walked toward the Gryffindor common room, Draco's mind was running a thousand kilometers an hour, his heart yammering in his chest. Harry was the noble type, Draco knew. Chivalrous. He could just _picture _it all in his head: Harry grabbing Draco's shoulders, giving him a gentle, lingering kiss goodbye, telling him that they must part ways for Draco's safety. And Draco would cry, and beg him not to do this, he would take the risk, Harry was _worth _the risk—

His brooding thoughts quieted when he saw Granger, arms weighted down with books, turning down a corridor and heading back to the common room, blissfully unaware. He ran after her.

"Granger," he called, not planning any of this, having no idea what he was going to ask her or what he needed from her or _any_thing. "Granger. I need—I need to talk to Harry."

Her eyes went wide. She sat her books down at her feet. "Why, what's happened?" she said exasperatedly.

"Blaise Zabini. He saw Harry and me together. He's told everyone in Slytherin," he said shortly, feeling strange enough already talking to Granger about something like this. He couldn't make eye contact with her.

"Oh, no," Hermione said, covering her mouth. "This is—wait here. I'll get Harry." She scooped up her books and scurried through the portrait hole.

Draco slumped against the opposite wall, waiting for the portrait hole to swing open again. When it did, he darted his eyes up hopefully, but he could tell by the mop of red hair crawling out that it wasn't Harry.

George came over to him, giving him a genuine supportive look. "Harry's on his way, he's just grabbing a few things," George said. "Right now we've got to find a place to hide you, and I've got just the place." Here would be a perfect place to insert a trademark George Weasley smile, but Draco looked up and there wasn't one. That made him all the more scared—if George was acting serious.

George grabbed him by the arm and tugged him along the corridor until he stopped without warning. He starting running his hands all over the wall, looking for some sort of secret knob or switch or something, Draco supposed. Finally George came to a part of the wall that his hand sank completely through, sort of like the brick wall at Platform 9 ¾.

"This way, Draco," George said, guiding Draco inside.

It looked like an old supply closet, there being mops and dustpans and sponges everywhere. Draco collapsed atop an overturned bucket, leaning his head against the edge of a shelf.

"My God, what've I gotten myself into?" he mumbled, head throbbing.

"I think Harry's got a few ideas already," George said, trying to sound reassuring. "But knowing him, he'll have a plan in no time."

"Plan? Plan for what? A plan to erase every single Slytherin's memories?" Draco scoffed, but he could only do that halfheartedly. George furrowed his brows in thought.

"Erase their memories…that could actually…I've got an idea," George said, jumping up. "Harry'll be here in two shakes. You'll be alright by yourself, won't you?" Draco nodded.

George walked out through the malleable wall, leaving Draco alone in the deafening silence with only his raging thoughts to keep him company. He started fidgeting at the cuff of his sleeve. He was going to go mad. He was—

Distantly he could hear someone scraping at the walls, trying to find the right spot to get into the secret room. Harry collapsed through the passageway, very nearly falling on his face, but managed to catch his balance. He was out of breath. He must've ran all the way there.

"Dra—Draco—" he gasped, trying to control his breathing. "Are you—alright?"

"I'm fine," he said, motioning for Harry to sit down, which he did.

Harry had tried to put on a brave demeanor before he met Draco, squaring his shoulders, wearing an authoritative facial expression, but Draco could see it in his eyes that he was scared. This made Draco fidget even more.

"Stop that," Harry said, reaching out for Draco's fidgeting hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be fine."

He took his hand back and pulled his booksack into his lap. He undid the straps and pulled a shimmering silver cloth out of it.

"Here," Harry said, pressing the cloth into Draco's hands. "When you're not in class, _wear it._"

Then Draco realised what he was holding—the Invisibility Cloak given to Harry by his father. His eyes welled with tears, but he didn't dare let them fall.

"No, Harry," he said, forcing it back into Harry's hands. "I can't take this. You're not thinking clearly, this means a lot to you, I—no, I—I can't take it."

"Do you know what else means a lot to me?" Harry said, giving Draco back the Invisibility Cloak. "You."

Draco stared down at the piece of old cloth in his hands, running his fingers over it lightly. He never really thought about _meaning _something to Harry before. He knew what this meant—he had finally crossed the line that divided 'vague, awkward love interest' and 'trusted friend.' Harry _trusted _him with his most prized possession. This was…A Very Big Step. Draco's mouth went dry.

"I promise I'll take care of it, Harry," Draco said, scarcely more than a whisper.

"I know," Harry said, equally as softly. He pulled something else out of his bag—an old slip of parchment. He muttered the charm to get the ink to appear and spread it open for Draco to see.

"See this? This is the Marauder's Map. Everyone inside the castle is on it. I'll know where you are at all times. I'll keep watch for you."

"Do you really think this is_ that_ big a deal?" Draco murmured, even though he already knew the answer to that.

Harry nodded gravely. "I do."

Harry tapped the map with a whispered '_mischief managed' _ and stuck it back in his bag. "Here, stand up, let me show you how to use this cloak properly—"

He told Draco how he should always make sure his feet weren't showing, how to make sure he wasn't breathing too hard to be conspicuous, how to skirt around people, how not to leave footprints if he ever had to walk outside. Draco nodded bleakly to all the instructions he was given. And finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and he felt tears fall down his face. He made to look away from Harry, but Harry grabbed his midsection and pulled him close, locking his arms tight across Draco's back. In turn, Draco put his own arms around Harry's shoulders, once again burying his nose into Harry's wonderful hair, sobbing quietly on Harry's shoulder. The Invisibility Cloak was clamped between their torsos somewhere, or it might've fallen on the floor already, neither of them knew.

"I'll think of something, Draco, don't worry," he mumbled into Draco's ear. "I promise."

Then he moved his hands to Draco's face, where he ran his thumbs over those sharp, refined features. He pressed his lips against Draco's, gentle but dominating, and slipped his tongue through Draco's teeth. Draco let his eyes flutter shut, trying to savour this moment—because there was no telling how long it would be until he would be able to see Harry alone like this again.

Draco sighed through his nose, tickling Harry's upper lip. He wished things could always be as simple as they were when they were alone like this. Maybe when they finally got out of this place, when they graduated, they could…oh, Draco didn't have the energy to think about that now. All he knew was that Harry was nice and warm and comforting and gave great kisses. Wasn't that enough?

Harry was the one to pull away, his breath uneven again. Draco rested his forehead against his shoulder—which wasn't exactly easy to do, seeing as he was taller than Harry.

"Have to told Ron?" he murmured.

"Yes," Harry said shortly.

"And?"

"He's not happy."

"Oh." Draco felt anger at first—his typical conditioned response to _anything_, really—but then he just felt guilt for muddying the waters between Harry and his best friend. But that quickly turned back to anger.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"'S alright," Harry said.

How long they stood there, Draco didn't know—he didn't ever keep track of time when he was with Harry because it did no good. They wasted way too much of it.

"It's getting late," Harry said. "We should…go."

"Right," Draco said, giving him a little nod as he pulled out of Harry's embrace.

"Put the Invisibility Cloak on," Harry said, and Draco draped it over his head.

"Remember to try not to make too much noise," Harry warned. He grabbed at the air until he found Draco, and pulled him back into one last, fleeting embrace.

"Just—be careful. I'll figure something out," Harry said. Draco nodded, but then remembered Harry couldn't see him. "All right," Draco said instead.

Harry headed out first, then Draco. Draco watched as Harry climbed through the portrait hole. He took extra care not to step on the hemming of the cloak, and he was already thinking of a good place to hide it when he got back to his room. He was even more worried about having to share a room with Blaise. What kind of stunt was Blaise capable of doing against Draco now? And could he even sleep in his own dorm room and still be safe?

Draco sighed for the millionth time that night. If it were possible to produce more tears, he probably would, but he had shed them all on Harry's shoulder.

There was always _something_, wasn't there? There was never a time where he could just _be_. He was getting tired of being caught up in life-threatening situations day after day after day after day. But he knew that _this_ particular scar-headed risk was worth it ten times over, as much as he didn't want to admit it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **It's been awhile since I've updated this one, I know! I hit a snag, but I got over it today, finally. But the thing is, when I get free time, I write. In the morning before I leave for school? Write. Between classes where I have a one-hour gap? Write. As soon as I get home? Write. Before bed? Write. So even though you might not see an update I'm still writing, and I have _lots _of story beginnings piled up that never see the light of day. Let me tell you the ones I started _just this week_.  
1) Harry goes to Malfoy Manor to give Draco's wand back and is ambushed by Death Eaters. Draco is in charge of watching him in the dungeons and Harry convinces he and Narcissa to run to Grimmauld Place with him...saw no point, ended it, may continue later.  
2) A crack!fic based off of the lovely 'My Immortal' complete with Draco wearing slutty pseudogoth girl clothes and being a vampire and sucking Zacharias Smith's blood and licking Harry's face. Uhm.  
3) Draco gets pregnant with Harry's baby. That's enough about that. But I'm oddly attached to it and I write it off and on.

This is why I think I should make a Livejournal, too. But what the hell _is _Livejournal, exactly? Does somebody have one and could you shoot me a message and explain it to me, please? D:

**Suggested Listening For This Chapter:** Breathe - Telepopmusic

* * *

'_I need a place to sleep…I need a place to sleep…I need a place to sleep…'_

Concealed within the soft fabric of Harry's Invisibility Cloak, which smelled maddeningly like his hair, Draco curled his hand around the doorknob and twisted. It opened. He breathed a sigh of relief. He thought his nerves might've been too frazzled to make the Room of Requirement work for him.

He went inside, and as soon as he took off the cloak, two large candles mounted to the wall sprang to life, flickering warmly. The room was small, about half the size of the room he and Harry had made their potions in—double bed, sofa, a table for homework, a small bookshelf with musty volumes on their shelves. And there were two doors at the back.

He folded the Invisibility Cloak carefully, gingerly placing it on the table. He went to the back and opened the door to the left; Slytherin robes, in his size. He breathed relief. He had an elaborate plan thought up to wake up at four in the morning to get a change of clothes, but now he didn't have to. He opened the door to the right; a bathroom, complete with toothbrush and soap and everything else. This was more than he could have asked for. He was glad the room had been able to probe his mind so well.

His eyes raked the volumes on the bookshelves; copies of his schoolbooks. Old copies, first editions, but they saved him from yet another venture back into his dorm room for the time being. The only book he happened to have in his bag when he ran was his Arithmancy book.

His Arithmancy book. He flopped on the bed, which was surprisingly soft, and pulled it out. His drawing of Harry was still tucked into the front cover, smiling back at him from three-quarter view. Draco sighed, running his index finger across Paper Harry's jawline.

Also in his bag, along with a littering of quills and ink bottles and a box of parchment, was the small phial of sea-green potion, the one that he had put too much of something-or-other in it and it did funny things to your brain. With the potion in one hand and the drawing in the other…he wondered if just a _picture _of Harry would yield the same effects as…

But he didn't want to waste it. He couldn't make any more of it, and he'd thrown the rest away for fear that too much of it in either of their systems would kill them (since he didn't know what he put too much of in there, exactly). There was only one shot at seeing Harry's strong memories of him…and did he even want to face what must be lurking behind Harry's brain?

Fuck. Look at what he'd been reduced to. Sleeping in the Room of Requirement, chased out of his own dorm while everyone in Slytherin ridiculed him for being a poof. He _wasn't _a poof. He was just…going with Harry Potter, that was all. There was a _difference._

He didn't care anymore. He uncorked the potion and slung the liquid down his throat, boring holes into his drawing of Harry. He tasted vanilla. Maybe some sort of marshmallow…sort…

His body was thrown violently into darkness, the wind rushing around in his ears. He couldn't move. He was stuck, stuck watching a scene unfold before him on a rainy day inside Madame Malkin's robe shop.

A tiny version of himself was staring into the bespectacled green eyes of an even tinier Harry. There was so much bustle in the store, and he was so far away that he could only catch tiny snippets of their conversation.

"You don't know what Quidditch is?" he heard himself balk. He saw little Harry shake his head, his shaggy hair which would only grow even shaggier flopping all over the place.

It was then that he realized what he was watching. He was having a look at Harry's first encounter with a wizard his own age—him.

Then things started to swirl and change into something else entirely, and he was in a place that smelled strongly of wet dirt after a recent rain. He was observing a Quidditch match against Gryffindor, one that he was determined to win because his father was in the audience, watching him like a silver-blonde hawk. His immobile form was floating in the midst of the field, and he could feel the rush from the other players whoosh past him. A green blur zoomed past, and he knew it was him. A red blur came a half-second later, undoubtedly Harry.

He was still so far away, and wanted to be closer, to somehow will his body to float over to the green and red blurs shoulder-to-shoulder now, so he could watch as their hands touched to grab at the Snitch together. Harry had been a millimeter closer and he caught it. Draco remembered he threw up afterward, he was so sickened with himself that Harry beat him by that little. He never beat Harry at anything.

Somehow he knew he was feeling Harry's emotions now…the crowd was going insane, but he couldn't hear them—they were a muffle, a buzz somewhere at the back of his ear. He felt elation in his chest…followed by a brief, but definitely present sensation of pure pity.

Harry had felt just a tiny bit sad that he had beaten Draco. Because Draco never beat Harry at anything.

And everything was changing again. This time he felt his feet plant firmly on the ground. He felt the crisp night air on his skin and saw the moonlight glowing off the stone and he knew without a doubt where he was before the people came into view. He was standing on the astronomy tower all over again.

"I can help you," Dumbledore called to him, and the Draco in the vision sobbed, knowing that here was his way out. He began to lower his wand. He wasn't a murderer, not now, not ever. But Severus came in and finished Dumbledore off before he could taste his salvation. He understood why, now, but it didn't make the memory any less horrible.

At the time, he didn't know Harry had been watching, but now he knew that Harry was Petrified and hidden away underneath his Invisibility Cloak. He could faintly feel the fabric rubbing against his own skin as Harry continued to remain invisible. He felt such a burning anger for Severus that he wanted to pull his own hair out just to force himself to focus on something else. And the sadness he felt for Dumbledore was welling in his chest, threatening to burst out. That was what Harry felt that night, and it felt absolutely awful.

Again the scene was rippling, and by the pungent, unmistakable smell of Fiendfyre invading his nose, he knew without a doubt what he was about to see before the swirls of red and black hummed into view. His body was suspended at an odd angle, watching the scene transpire below him.

He saw himself down there, an ashen look on his face, knowing without a doubt that death was coming for him and there was nothing he could do about it. Then his head snapped up. He saw Harry, flying towards him, knowing with a leaden stomach that if he might not've been such a damn prat all those years he might've—

He scooped Draco up and threw him onto the back of his broom, and Draco clamped his arms around his middle and held on for dear life.

Draco watched all of this happen again in his strange suspended place. He was full of fear, dread, _worry_. And a niggling hero complex that extended to even the prattiest of the prats, which he knew was directed toward him, and he'd be a little mad about it if he didn't know how the future unfolded.

He wanted out of there. He didn't want to see any more. Who _knew _what he was bound to see? Harry's final clash with Voldemort, having nothing to defend himself with but _his _wand, the wand that Draco secretly feared wouldn't work for Harry due to their old mutual resentment? He didn't, couldn't, see anymore, didn't want to relive these memories anymore, he—

With a sharp intake of breath, his eyes shot open back into the present. Somehow he'd ended up on his knees on the floor, his drawing of Harry crumpled in his hand, the contents of his bag scattered everywhere, his Arithmancy book landing pages-down. He was coated in a disgustingly moist sweat. He got up on shaky knees and tottered off into the bathroom for a long, cold shower.

{~}

That night Draco only got two hours of sleep. He dragged himself into the Potions classroom looking like something had chewed him up and spat him out. As he walked toward the back of the room, the only Slytherin that wasn't snickering at him was Pansy. She threw him a concerned look and he tried to smile at her, managing only a sort of lopsided grimace-thing.

But the angriest look he got was from Ron, whose cheeks were red as cherries. His fists were clenching and unclenching atop his desk, like he couldn't decide whether or not he should get up and pound his face in. George, who had wedged himself down at the far end of the desk beside Hermione, rolled up the magazine he was reading and bapped him on the head. Draco really did grin this time.

"How was staying with Blaise?" Harry whispered immediately after Draco sat down. Draco looked up at him with weary eyes and noticed that Harry's were just as tired. Harry looked about as rumpled as he did.

"I didn't stay there," Draco whispered, shaking his head slightly. "I went to the Room of Requirement."

"Good," Harry said, his shoulders sagging relief. "I couldn't bloody believe I didn't suggest that to you last night."

"Has anyone—er—said anything to you?" Draco said. "About us?"

"No. Well, Pansy," he said, inclining his head in her direction. "She told me she threatened and hexed and blackmailed her way into keeping them all quiet until George can come up with his plan."

"Plan to what, exactly?" Draco asked, furrowing his brow.

"Dunno," Harry said, shrugging. "I learned a long time ago not to ask about George's plans."

{~}

But Draco, however_, hadn't_ learned a long time ago not to ask about George's plans, and he had no problem doing just that when he sat down next to the redhead in their Arithmancy class.

"I think I've got it," George said, beaming. He pulls out a box of sky-blue, translucent gummy candies from his pocket, shaking them round. "Not sure what to call them yet. Memory Marvels, I think's what they'll be."

"And what, exactly, are they supposed to do?"

"When the gelatin was still a liquid, I stirred it with my wand saying a Confundus hex, see?" George said. "And I added a few questionable other things in there…anyhow, it works _sort_ of like a Confundus hex, except you can permanently erase something from someone's memory. I _think_. Haven't tested it yet, I'll probably have to tweak the recipe a bit, but…it's a start, yeah?"

Draco opened his mouth to ask if he actually thought that would ever work, but he forgot George was co-owner of a multi-million Galleon enterprise completely based on silly things that people thought would never work, but did. So he nodded at George with hopeful eyes and a barely-there smile.

This whole thing might actually right itself.

"Here comes Professor _Boring_," George said as Professor Vector hobbled up to the front of the classroom. George and Draco took out their books and quills and ink, because they already knew how the class period was going to transpire. Professor Vector was going to say, 'Hello, class, how are you?' and they would say, 'Fine, sir,' and he would say 'Turn in your book to page blah-blah-blah, you may talk quietly amongst yourselves'. Draco sighed.

Professor Vector cleared his throat. "Hello, class, how are you?"

"Fine, sir," they all droned.

"For today, please turn in your book to page 137 and work all problems. You may talk quietly amongst yourselves." He disappeared behind a _Quibbler _at his desk.

To Draco's surprise, George was actually quite good at Arithmancy. Sometimes Draco even asked himfor help if he ever got stuck on a problem. They were scribbling quietly when a question itched at Draco's brain, and he couldn't help but whisper it as George's nose hovered mere inches above his parchment, his hand scribbling madly.

"George," he murmured.

"Yeah?" Big smile.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did, mate."

Draco was confused for half a beat, then he tittered under his breath. "No, really. Can I ask you something?"

"Is it about the size of my manhood? Because honestly, Drakey, I just don't know if Harry would—"

"_No_," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "It's—I was just wondering something."

"Alright, I was only joking, go on, ask it."

"Why—_why _did you come back to Hogwarts, if you've got such a steady future ahead of you with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes? You don't have to worry about school, you've already got a career and everything."

Suddenly George's face softened, and Draco knew he'd asked the complete wrong question. George took a deep breath, expelling it in a huff out of his lungs, looking down near Draco's arm somewhere and not his face anymore.

"Never mind, you don't—"

"No, it's fine," George said, but he didn't _look _like it was fine. "I'll tell you."

He seemed to ponder things for awhile, licking his lips. Then he spoke, very slowly and precisely, so very not-George that it made Draco feel queasy. "You don't know what it's like to lose a twin…it's…half of me is completely gone, now. Have you never noticed how I walk so close to everyone? It's because I miss that feeling of having somebody on me elbow." He rubbed his arm absently, the arm Fred always used to be glued to.

"And when I walk into the shop, you know…there's posters everywhere with both our faces on it, and all the product boxes are stamped with _our _faces…it's almost like he's still there, still _haunting _me or something, still—" He shook his head.

"I don't want to look at it anymore. Can't. Too depressing. Fred would go mad if he knew I'm planning on selling the shop, but he _definitely _wouldn't want me to be sad forever. That's not me. That's not _us. _You know?"

Draco nodded, surprised to feel his eyes were watery. Damn Potter and his _feelings toward others _rubbing off on him.

"Does it—" Draco's voice came out a bit high-pitched. He cleared his throat and started over. "Does it bother you to work on…you know, the memory things? If it does I'll—"

"No, no, that's fine, that's fine," George said, flapping a hand, trying to sound cheerful. His face was turned away from Draco and he had a lingering suspicion that George was crying.

He felt bad. He was _not _supposed to feel bad for some stupid _Weasley._

Look how far he'd come. He didn't know whether to be satisfied or mortified.

"George—" Draco started.

"Back in a jiff, Drakey, hold that thought," George said with faux cheer in his voice. He slid his chair back and took quick steps to the door, swiping at his face with the cuff of his robes as he went.

Draco sighed deeply and pulled George's homework toward him, filling in the answers for him.

* * *

**End Notes: **This chapter makes me really, **really **want to write a Draco/George. It would be nearly impossible to cook up a scenario to make it seem plausible, though. But I think it would be really cute.

Also, if you've got questions about my fics, story suggestions, general comments, blah blah, I started using Formspring again and you can send me questions. My username is lazycreeper, so it's Formspring dot me slash lazycreeper. :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **I know it's been forever since I've updated _anything! _But college has just consumed me here lately, literally and figuratively. Also, I'm busy filling out job application after job application, because I "gotta make that money," as my friend Kayla says. Also...lots of things no one on the internet cares about happened, and it's really hindered me from writing anything new. I haven't had time to do anything I enjoy. ):

But here's the new chapter! It's short, and a bit filler-y, but I'm proud of myself that I actually wrote _something_. Amirite?

* * *

Weeks passed by and Harry and Draco didn't really see much of each other. They would mumble a few things here and there when they sat next to each other during Potions, and gave a few discreet nods when they passed one another in the hallway, but not much more. And they only did _that _because they both felt obligated to, more or less.

But George was still working on the so-called 'Memory Marvels', he informed Draco. Just a few more precautionary tests and they would be done.

Draco wondered if that would make everything better again.

He still slept in the Room of Requirement, because he didn't trust going back to his own dormitory just yet. He spent a lot of his time splayed out on the bed, staring at the charred ceiling, thinking about all the little intricate webbings that was his and Harry's relationship.

What _was _it, exactly? Were they boyfriend-boyfriend, so to speak? _He _definitely had feelings for Harry, and he knew they were more than friendship, and at random bursts it felt like full-blown love, but he wasn't sure. It was hard to label. And Harry was usually pretty easy to read, feelings-wise, but for something like this, Draco came up with a big nothing.

He was sure Harry cared for him—which, in and of itself, was unreal and hard to believe, so sometimes he doubted that—but he didn't really know how much.

And then the next question would be, did any of that really matter?

His mother used to tell him that you couldn't love anybody else until you learned to love yourself. He didn't know about that. But if that was true, he had a lot of soul-searching to do in the very near future, because at that moment he was none too fond of himself.

Draco rolled onto his stomach, putting a pillow in a vicegrip and slamming his head down on it. He hadn't had a real conversation with Harry in days and days. He knew that if he didn't make an effort Harry was apt to drop him like a hot rock for a relationship much less complicated. But he just didn't know what to _say_. What _do _you say to someone like Harry, when everything was growing more and more intense and you weren't sure if the other person still thought you were worth it?

What _do _you say?

{*}

_H,_

_Meet me at the astronomy tower at one a.m. tonight._

_-D_

Simple enough, but Harry understood it. He cast a muttered _Incendio _on the bewitched paper plane that crash-landed into his hair as he was walking back up to the common room, so he didn't leave any evidence. He stuffed the ashes into an inside pocket of his robes, on the off-chance someone came along and knew some reverse spell, or something like that.

Even though he knew he shouldn't be, Harry was nervous about meeting Draco. It had been so long since they'd actually talked, so what would they talk about? Maybe Draco had finally had enough of all of the hiding and the pretending and the fear, and he wanted to end it all. Harry couldn't really blame him, he thought reluctantly.

But that didn't mean he wanted him to do that, by any means.

He stayed around in his bed for awhile until he heard Ron snore off to sleep, then slipped out the door at eleven-thirty. It was early, but sneaking around the castle unseen without his Invisibility Cloak was going to be tricky business. And he didn't want to be late.

It actually wasn't too bad, getting up to the astronomy tower. There were a couple stragglers, someone who looked like a lost Hufflepuff, and a couple teachers roaming around. He dodged them all behind tapestries and stone statues and hidden passageways. The portraits gave him disapproving looks as he slinked through the shadows, but he didn't care.

Harry climbed the final steps that led to the top of the tower, and looking at the place again immediately filled him with things he had tried to forget the sensation of. He almost left, he didn't want to be there so badly. If he didn't know that he stood a chance of Draco never speaking to him again, he would have.

"Over here," a voice mumbled, and Draco pulled the Invisibility Cloak off of his shoulders. His skin was washed in blue-white moonlight.

Without looking at Harry, Draco moved into the shadows and slid down the wall, a safe and comfortable distance away from the edge, Harry was glad to note. Harry joined him, feeling the cool of the stone seep through his robes and trousers and pants, chilling his arse. He sat a foot away from Draco, unsure if it was safe to move closer or not yet.

"Hey," Draco said.

"Hey," Harry said.

Silence.

"This is…complicated," Draco said.

"Yeah."

Harry rested the back of his head against the wall. Draco fidgeted.

"Stop that." Harry grabbed one of Draco's hands and laced their fingers together. Draco stopped his fidgeting and dropped his free hand back onto his knee.

Draco sighed.

"I want this to work out," Draco mumbled. He still wasn't looking at Harry.

Harry felt a pang of panic in his gut, but decided Draco wasn't going to push it further and saysomething along the lines of _'But I don't think it will.'_

"Me too," Harry said.

One of Draco's fingers twitched in Harry's grip. He took that as a good sign.

The two of them listened to the sound of the wind whipping around the tower and each other's steady breathing for awhile, just about the only warm thing left on their bodies being their entwined hands.

"Then it will," Draco murmured, and through the dark Harry caught the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of the blonde's mouth.

{*}

Draco skipped first and second hour classes the next day. He didn't get to bed till three and he didn't have to look in a mirror to know he had bags under his eyes. He didn't much care about Charms and Care of Magical Creatures, anyhow.

But he wouldn't miss Potions for the world.

He walked into Slughorn's class, feeling rested when everybody else looked tired, because he'd just rolled out of bed. His normally perfect hair had cowlicks poking up here and there, because he didn't feel like casting the charm to tamp them down. He almost felt like smiling, but not quite. He carefully averted his eyes from the other Slytherins', though, because he didn't want to see how their stares looked today. Maybe today he could get by without feeling anxious about the future.

The Slytherins were always first to arrive, obviously, and the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws were always the last. He spent the time waiting for Harry to plunk down beside him staring down at his parchment. Every time he heard laughter, though, he snapped his head up to look round, because he just _knew _they were laughing about _him. _Every single time.

Harry skirted into the classroom about a minute before he was late, which is what happened nearly every day, so no surprise there. He looked more disheveled than usual, though, because his hair was in more knots and his glasses were askew and there were puffy gray marks under his eyes. Still, he managed a smile at Draco and Draco couldn't help but give him a tiny smile back.

"Hey."

"Hey."

They didn't say anything more to each other for the whole class period, or even afterward, for that matter, but now the few words they managed to exchange were worth so much more.

{*}

"Honestly, Ron, you haven't talked to him in four days."

Ron and Hermione were having another one of their famous fights. Harry always left the Great Hall a little before they did because he was a fast eater (and didn't eat much of anything in the first place) and as soon as he was out of earshot, the arguing between the two of them began. Usually it wasn't over anything serious, just a little lovers' quarrel, but now the subject had changed to a much more serious matter.

"I don't bloody _want _to talk to him," Ron said, and even though Hermione had just now dug the subject up, his whole face was turning red. He didn't even like to _think _about it. About _him._

"Surely you saw the warning signs—"

"_Warning signs?_" Ron bellowed, and Hermione motioned with her hands for him to quiet it down a little. He did. "How was _I _supposed to know my best mate was a flaming poof?"

"_Ronald_," Hermione said. "Don't say things like that, you know it doesn't change who he is on the inside—"

"But _Malfoy?_" Ron said. He shook his head, looking so annoyed and disgusted that he was actually scaring Hermione a bit. "Of all the blokes in the _universe _he could've—"

"I know, I know," Hermione said. "I agree with you on that—somewhat. But he's really happy with him, I can tell, and I think as his friends we should be there to support him…no matter _who _he dates, boy or no. _Malfoy _or no."

Ron made a little annoyed sound in his throat and rubbed at his temples. "I don't know. It's just…_Malfoy? _I don't get it. It doesn't make sense. What does he _see _in that slimy git?"

"I think it's what he _doesn't _see that makes him most attracted to him," Hermione said. Ron asked her what that was supposed to mean, and she just shook her bushy head and smiled to herself, telling him he'd get it eventually. Which actually might not be true, since Ron could be thick with things like that, but one never knew.


	16. Chapter 16

**Warnings:** First and foremost, this is a Drarry story-or Draco/Harry, HPDM, whatever you like to call it. If you don't like it, I can't imagine why you'd read it...so don't. Also, this is a slow-burner. I don't like it when stories have Malfoy and Harry together for no reason at all, so you'll be getting some -gasp- plot development. Again...I understand if that's not your type of story, no hard feelings, just click that back button.

**Author's Note: **I am so, SO sorry it's been so long since I updated this! It's been nearly two months. :C But I swear, I opened up this story on my computer nearly every day, and just...nothing would come out. I haven't had writer's block that bad in a loooong time. And I know this chapter is a little choppy, but it was so hard to get out of my head that I'm just glad it's _some_thing. :P Hopefully I'll get back into the swing of things soon.**  
**

By the way, I was playing the Harry Potter version of Clue the other day and it was just perfect. Ginny was the one who was killed, and it was Draco in the Potions classroom with a Vanishing Cabinet. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.

...Just thought you'd want to know. ._.;

* * *

George held one of the gummy candies between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a little squish. They were an opaque sky blue and perfectly round. Without Fred's help it had taken him two months to get the mixture quite right, but he finally figured it out.

Fred. That was another thing he'd been dwelling on here lately. Actually, _lately _didn't quite cut it. More like, every day since George saw his twin's casket surrounded with dirt.

The Memory Marvels, as George was calling them, worked in a peculiar yet convenient way—the manufacturer controlled the memory that was to be forgotten, so not just anyone could take advantage of them. He'd mixed in a hair from Harry's head and a hair from Draco's, among other things, so once the Slytherins ate one of the little blue jellies, their recollections of Harry and Draco's relationship would be gone for good, and they'd be none the wiser.

Every candy he made was like that, except for the one that he held in his hand.

If you had an identical twin, you not only shared his looks, but his very DNA. George could take a hair from his own head and mix it in with his recipe, and all his visions of Fred would be gone forever.

So, too, would be the memories of himself.

Sometimes he would rather forget it all than live another day without his twin, but today wasn't the day. He had things to do, after all, and he'd feel like he let Fred down if he gave up on his scheme already. He put the special Memory Marvel into a spare sock, and stuffed the sock deep into his trunk. He wouldn't be going that route—not today, in any case, but it'd always be an option if things got too bad.

Now all he would need was Harry's Invisibility Cloak, and his plan would be set into action.

{*}

Harry looked optimistic about George's plan, but Draco had his doubts—he didn't think there was any way George could manage to sneak the Memory Marvels to all the Slytherins, Invisibility Cloak or no.

"I'm tellin you, mate," George said, "I've got this, easy. They dissolve in liquid, so all I 'ave to do is plop it into their cup at breakfast, and they'll be none the wiser about you and Lover Boy." George gave Harry a grin, and Harry tried his best to return the gesture. But he was so, so tired.

Draco wasn't looking much better than Harry, with dark rings around his eyes and limp hair hanging from his head. The only time they could get to see each other was late in the night, high in the Astronomy tower, and they were both managing four hours of sleep a night, tops. Draco tried to get Harry to just meet him in the Room of Requirement, where it would at least be more comfortable, but Harry didn't want to risk Draco's last remaining hiding place being discovered. It was incredibly unlikely that that was going to happen, but better safe than sorry, he supposed.

"Hope this works," Harry said, and the tiredness was evident in his voice. Draco murmured something in agreement.

George flapped a hand at them both. "Worrywarts, you are," he said. "I've done a lot worse in my day. This is cake, trust me."

Draco nodded and handed over the Invisibility Cloak, which he'd been using ever since this whole escapade began. He looked longingly at losing his last bit of protection, but George assured them he'd have it back before the night was over.

"And by that time you won't even need it," George said with a grin, thinking how lucky he was that he could mask his inner pain better than Draco and Harry combined.

"Well," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll leave you two alone now." He crouched to avoid hitting the low ceiling as he walked. He picked a different hiding spot every time when they needed to meet up, and now they were in some sort of alcove on the fourth floor, the entrance hidden by a tapestry. He pulled back the tapestry and left as quietly as he had entered.

"So," Draco said, "do you think…do you really think George knows his stuff?" There was worry in his eyes, behind all those gray bags, anyway.

"Well," Harry said. "Yeah. I do. He's never let me down before…but I know this all seems like it's too good to be true."

Draco picked a spider off of his shoulder and sent it scuttling off in the opposite direction. There was dust all over his hands and knees from where he'd been crawling around on the floor, and there was no telling how much he'd sucked down in his lungs. "It does," Draco said. "It's been so long, I can't even imagine what it'd be like not having to hide all the time."

"I know what you mean," Harry said, sighing. Then silence followed. But they'd been spending so much time with each other now that it was a comfortable silence.

They sat there for a little while longer, doing nothing but enjoying each other's company, until it was finally time to head down to breakfast.

{*}

By now Ron had come to terms with the fact that his best mate was dating a Malfoy, but that didn't mean he liked it. Every chance he got he made some snide remark or other about the blonde, which only got him a jab in the ribs from George and his toes stamped on by Hermione. Harry just laughed it off. He'd done a little bit of growing up in these couple rough months. He knew in time that Ron would get used to it, and if he didn't, oh well.

They all had a free hour before dinner, and Harry, George, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Neville were all seated at a table in the Gryffindor common room, batting around some light conversation and scribbling out a bit of homework.

"Harry," Ron said. "Can I ask you something?"

Harry sat his quill down and looked up from his Herbology essay. He could tell by the tone in his voice that he probably wasn't going to much like the question Ron had in mind.

But he pushed all of that to the back of his mind. "Sure," Harry said with a shrug. "Ask away."

"This is something I've been wondering for a long time, and I've got to ask it because it's driving me mad. So, please just answer it for me, alright?"

Harry smiled a little. He'd bet anything that Ron's question had something to do with Draco. "Go on," he said.

"Of all the blokes you could've chosen," he started, and paused for a half-second when every head at the table pivoted to stare at him. "Why _Mal_foy? _Why_? I swear, I've thought about it over and over, and I can't think of a bloody thing that would make you fancy him. Please, just _tell _me."

Now every pair of eyes drifted away from Ron and onto Harry. With the exception of Hermione, it looked like everyone else wanted to know the answer to that question just as much as Ron did.

"Well, it's just—" Harry started, but he didn't even know where to begin.

They all looked at him expectantly.

"I don't really know how to explain it," he said, a hint of defeat in his voice. "It's like…I didn't really know him, until Slughorn made us do that Potions project together, and now I know…how he _really _is. I guess you could say." He scratched at his arm, which was very much reminiscent of Draco's fidgeting habit. He dropped his hands down into his lap, forcing them still.

"And how is he _really_?" Ron prodded.

"He's…" Harry said, but then he didn't know what to add to that. How could you sum up Draco Malfoy in one sentence, when there were all those different layers to peel through?

"…Different," Harry said.

"As in, not a slimy git anymore?" Ron said, and Hermione gave him a seething look.

But Harry just smiled. He could easily turn all this into a fight, like he might've done in fourth year, but why bother? It wasn't worth it to get all defensive, it really wasn't.

"I suppose he can still be a slimy git when he wants to be," Harry said with a laugh. "But now I guess I understand _why _he's a slimy git."

Ron didn't know what else to say, after that, but everyone else wanted to throw their two cents in on the matter, so their table wasn't silent for long.

"I think some of it's kind of psychological," Hermione said. "No offense, Harry, but you've got a bit of a hero complex. Not that that's bad, or anything," she said quickly, holding her hands up in front of her. "Because it obviously isn't. But maybe somewhere in your mind, the idea of a sort of good versus evil relationship really appeals to you."

"But I didn't think Malfoy was really evil, he just affiliated with You-Know-Who because his father made him," Neville piped in.

"Well, that's sort of true," Hermione said. "But you've got to consider the…"

And so the conversation about Draco went on, and Harry was just sitting back, listening to it all. Every one of them seemed to have a differing opinion on Harry's love life and why he chose who he did, and it was amusing, really.

It was George who finally said what he'd been thinking the whole time. "Yeah, but what if none of that matters, and Harry's dating Draco just because he _fancies _him? Does there really have to be a reason?" Harry smiled to himself.

"Well, there _has _to be a reason," Hermione said matter-of-factly.

"Alright, if there's got to be a reason, how come you're dating Ron, then?"

"Because—" Hermione started. Ron looked at her expectantly. "Well, he's nice, and…" She was silent after that, brow furrowed in apparent thought.

"See, there's no real reason, except that you fancy him," George said.

"You don't like me because I'm good-looking?" Ron said.

Then they started bickering back and forth, young couple stuff, no big deal, and the conversation spun of its own accord, leaving Harry out again. He was perfectly fine with that. He shook his head and smiled to himself.

Slowly but surely, Harry's relationship was becoming a norm. It had been a long time since he thought something might actually turn out _good_, for a change.

{*}

Draco worried at his lip in the Great Hall come suppertime. Once again he was sitting far, far away from everyone else (with the exception of Pansy), and even though he knew their true colors now, it _would _be nice to feel like he was part of a group again—until school was out, at least. He supposed he was shallow that way.

He was in the process of buttering toast when he felt a tap at his shoulder. He whipped around, but no one was there.

He smiled. This was George's pre-determined signal that he'd arrived to do some mischief.

Pansy caught the look on Draco's face. "He's here, isn't he?" she whispered, and Draco nodded.

He risked a glance every now and then to see if he could make out the faintest glimpse of movement, but he couldn't. Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and nothing happened—or nothing he could notice, anyway. He thought maybe George couldn't get close enough, or he didn't want to risk blowing his cover, or—

"Hey!" Blaise called down the table, and Draco's heart skipped a beat. "What are you two doing sitting down there all by yourselves, eh?"

"Just, er—had to discuss something in private for a bit," Pansy said, standing up. She hauled Draco up by the arm, as well. "We're all done now." She gave Draco a meaningful look, but he wasn't sure what it meant, exactly.

Pansy sat down next to Blaise, and, not knowing what else to do with himself, Draco sat down next to Pansy, feeling incredibly uncomfortable with himself. Surely it couldn't have been that easy. _Sure_ly there was something else to it. They couldn't have just—

"Pass the potatoes, would you?" Theo said, and it took a dig in the ribs from Pansy to realize Theo was talking to _him_. Dumbfounded, he handed over the potatoes in question, still not believing such civil words were coming out of the other boy's mouth and meant for him.

"Something the matter, Draco?" Theo said. "You look sick."

"Er—'m fine," Draco muttered, still in disbelief.

Just like that, all their memories of Draco and Harry's goings-on were gone, dissolved like so much salt. Draco was still leery, but it looked like George's Memory Marvels had worked.

Even though Draco didn't catch it, Harry looked over at his new spot at the Slytherin table and smiled with relief.


End file.
